


Revival

by Aoidos



Category: London Spy
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-27
Updated: 2015-12-27
Packaged: 2018-05-09 19:17:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 24,532
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5552087
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aoidos/pseuds/Aoidos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I know the ending of London Spy was traumatic for a lot of people, so this is my own small effort at a fix-it fic to tweak i.e. completely change the ending. No disrespect meant to Tom Rob Smith and his creation (which I actually love quite a lot).</p><p>I hope no one takes offense to the changes I've made, and I tried to be respectful of the original ending, while making some very obvious, huge edits. </p><p>Also, while I don't think it's necessary to enjoy the fic, I would recommend reading Seven Year Revival before delving into this fic as I make a couple references to the drabbles that may enrich the overall experience.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Revival

They were destined to lose. In retrospect, Danny understands that now. It was foolish to think that if he made noise, caused MI6 enough trouble, that they would be _forced_ to contend with him. Even Frances, who is brilliant and the right kind of manipulative, could not summon an audience with the big players, the ones responsible for Alex’s death. He desperately wanted someone to blame, to meet the man behind the curtain, and when he could not have that, he wanted to hate her. But afterwards, they drove back to what is left of the Turner manor and Danny had to pull off the road because he was crying so hard. He rounded on her, ready to hurl expletives and accusations about facilitating the death of her son, but saw Frances staring back at him, her face shattered and smeared with tears, and he couldn’t even summon enough energy to hate her.

Danny is tired straight down to his bone marrow. He wants to go lick his wounds inside Scottie’s home, now his, and be alone until he’s old—or MI6 comes round to finish what they started. _What more can they take from me?_ he wonders later, standing barefooted in the parlor, gazing through the large windows into black nothingness. Outside of London, the silence is tremendous. He thinks floating in space must be like this. Sometimes, he stands on the back steps and waits for a noise—any noise—but even the birds have left him alone to toil in isolation. Danny feels as though the word _Quarantine_ must be scrawled on his forehead in large, red letters.

Sara and Pavel call once a week, encouraging him to go out with them, but he can’t bear the thought. The idea of dancing is tantamount to scaling a mountaintop; the concept of socializing makes him feel ill. He thinks, if he was required to string sentences together, he might weep from the exertion. It can’t be the virus, he knows that. It’s too soon for symptoms to be manifesting, and besides, he’s on all the correct prescription medication. No…this is a different sort of fatigue, the one born of heartbreak.

He’s heard stories before, about couples that had been married forty or fifty years, dying mere minutes apart because they could not stand being separated. But he never believed such tales until this moment. _I can’t live without you_ , he thinks a hundred times a day, each flash followed by a nauseating moment of self-loathing because, how pathetic, pining for a man who lied to him from the first moment they met.

He spends a long time contemplating suicide, but can’t decide which method would be the quickest and neatest. Poisoning is risky, a gun shot too violent. By the time he comes round to hanging, he remembers Scottie and winces, touching his throat. Danny feels foolish and cruel. After that, he stops considering that possibility because it feels like a desecration of Alex and Scottie’s memories. They’re both dead because of him and he can’t give up or it means their sacrifices were in vain.

Danny sleeps all the time, occasionally rising to eat a bit of food (Sara shows up periodically to restock the kitchen), or pad around Scottie’s home. It still doesn’t feel right to call it _his_. More like he’s living inside a tomb of Scottie’s past. He’ll walk around in his briefs and Scottie’s old robe and pick up a vase only to discover it’s from the Qianlong dynasty. Or pluck a book off a shelf and realize he’s cradling a precious first edition in his hands. Danny has no reference point for how valuable Scottie’s possessions are, but knows enough to realize he is a poor curator for such precious relics, especially given his record of wrecking things.

He drifts past the porcelain figurines on their art deco shelves and feels like the lone entity that does not belong among this treasured collection.

Six months pass. He stops shaving. He doesn’t try to find a new job. With the money Scottie left him, he’ll never have to work another day for the rest of his life. He loses weight until he can’t stand the sight of himself in the loo mirror. Sara and Pavel stop calling and start showing up in person, even when he’s in a sour mood and refuses to socialize with them in the parlor. He hears them sitting on the couch, chatting, as though it’s not incredibly weird that they’re spending time in the house without him. The third consecutive week they do this, it’s all so ridiculous that he finally goes out and sits with them, though he refuses to speak out of principle.

They never force him to participate. Pavel simply mentions one week that he has the new _M83_ album downloaded on his phone—upon reflection, clearly baiting Danny—and he perks up, asking to hear it, and Pavel plays it in the silence of Scottie’s mausoleum. The music swells, washing over him, bringing with it vivid memories: Alex jogging towards him, his boots crunching on gravel during their countryside walks, Scottie standing in front of the parlor window as it rained outside. Suddenly, Sara is kneeling at his feet, eyes shimmering swimming pools, moaning, “My love, my love,” and Danny had no idea why until he realizes he’s crying. No, not crying—sobbing—great, violent quakes that shake his frame until Pavel joins them and clutches his face, telling him to breathe.

**____________________________________**

 

“We can’t keep doing this,” he hears Pavel whisper to Sara at night while they’re cleaning up the kitchen.

“Lower your voice.”

“We _can’t._ We’re enabling him and we don’t even know what we’re doing. He needs a proper therapist. Someone who knows how to help him.”

Danny leans against the shut door of Scottie’s bedroom, fingertip tracing the carved wood, nestling in the little leafs of ivy.

“What do you want me to do? He won’t see anyone. He won’t listen to reason. I’m frightened to leave him alone—”

“We have to _do_ something.”

“We _are_.”

Even when Danny doesn’t mean to, he destroys the people dearest to him. He considers rushing into the parlor to make the big announcement: _Don’t worry! I’m not suicidal because I’m too much of a coward to get the job done_ , but decides against it. They already think he’s unstable. He _is_ unstable.

Fingertips cascade downward, tracing the vine’s rope, dropping to curl around the brass doorknob. A flare of anger at himself as he considers everything his friends have risked simply by knowing him. Sara complains that she keeps being pulled over for speeding tickets and Pavel was red-flagged last month returning from visiting his family in Ukraine. Agents pulled him into an interrogation for six hours. Danny is the only one who knows these events are not coincidences, but rather consequences of being associated with him.

They’ve sacrificed so much and he’s too selfish to make an effort at pretending he feels better. When he’s sure they’re done talking about him, his grip tightens on the knob, turns, and he walks from the bedroom. “Want to watch a film?” he offers, hands perched atop jagged hips, his stunned friends freezing mid-tidying up to consider him from the kitchen. Pavel’s jaw is practically on the floor. “Yes!” Sara declares, too loud, “I mean, yeah. I have some films downloaded on my laptop. What do you want to see?” she asks, rushing forward, then remembers she’s holding a kitchen towel. She jams it against Pavel’s chest until he grasps it like a baby and hurries into the parlor, hands clumsy as she wrestles out the laptop.

“Don’t care,” Danny says, tone light, collapsing on the couch and kicking up his feet on the table. “What have you got?”

Sara chooses a comedy—one Danny has never heard of or seen before—but his former flatmates seem to enjoy it. They laugh throughout the movie, occasionally glancing his way to make sure he is watching and enjoying himself as well. He makes sure to smile at the correct times, performing, because in truth he can barely follow what’s happening. In his mind, he’s back in the attic. The staged scene of the crime. Fingertips ghosting over unused sex toys. The trunk waiting for him in the corner. _Alex_.

No one is interested in his pain anymore, no matter how much they love him. Even those with the best of intentions have a threshold for how much patience and understanding they can project. Mostly, everyone wants Danny to move on or shut up, though they’re too kind to ever say the words aloud. And explaining to them that _moving on_ will never be an option for him is out of the question because the only step after that is heavy medication, lobotomy, or institutionalization.

Danny knows this, which is why he makes sure to smile and thank Sara when the film is over. Her face glows because she thinks she’s really helped him, and for a moment, Danny feels good about lying to her. Because at least someone feels better after their visit.

 

**____________________________________**

 

He lives quietly with the pain for three years. During this period, he barely leaves the house and only survives because of the kindness of his lingering relations, but eventually even they stray. Sara gets a new boyfriend, a serious one, and strikes a compromise where she sets up grocery and medical delivery and cleaning services for Danny (all charged to Scottie’s bottomless bank account). He supposes that’s her way of showing she cares without having to constantly serve as his nanny. Her guilt is palpable through the phone when she announces the arrangement to him, and he wants to tell her: _Don’t feel guilty. You stayed longer than I would have. You stayed longer than anyone else. You stayed longer than my own flesh and blood_. The words don’t come, though. 

Pavel secures a good job as a stage director in an exciting, experimental production of _The Tempest_ that receives good write-ups in _The Guardian_ and _The Telegraph_. The reviews say Shakespeare’s play has been “thrillingly reimagined,” seamlessly fused with urban elements such as hip-hop. It sounds wonderful. He cuts out the good reviews and keeps them inside a drawer of Scottie’s old writing desk. Danny isn’t sure why. Pavel sends a ticket for opening night in the mail: a nice, empty gesture because they both know he won’t go. Written on a slip of paper inside the envelope beneath the ticket is the simple instruction: “Take care of yourself.” He rips it in half, along with the ticket and tosses it in the rubbish. The idea of traveling into the heart of London is like visiting a different planet. Part of him is afraid if he sees the Thames, he’ll think of Alex, and cry in the middle of the theater crowd like a complete nutter.

MI6 never visits, but occasionally he’ll see a white van drive by the house, or observe a repairman tinkering with a fuse box on a utility pole, and simply _knows_ it’s them making sure he’s keeping his nose out of trouble. _Don’t worry_ , he bitterly thinks _, No one believed me when I did try to tell them_. He loses track of the days, one month bleeding into the next. Time fluctuates between creeping by in agonizingly slow increments and accelerating at breakneck speed. The third year, he’s surprised to learn that Christmas passed without him even realizing. He goes to the bedroom, pulls on the reindeer socks, and sits on the edge of Scottie’s bed, staring at them.

He’s still wearing them upon waking the next day to the doorbell ringing. Brow furrowed, he considers his cell phone. It’s early. Maybe it’s a medical supply drop, though he’s still fully stocked with his meds. He slides into a pair of jeans and a sweater and jogs to the front door, peering through the peephole to see Frances standing on the front stoop. His heart clenches painfully simply seeing her face. “Yes?” he greets, after yanking open the door.

She looks surprised to see him. No, not to see him—that he looks so awful. None of his clothes fit properly anymore, jeans held up with the aid of a tightly cinched belt, and his beard is unwieldy, jutting out in unkept chunks. Even though he’s been trimming his hair, it’s still too long, dusting his shoulder blades. “Danny…” she gasps, but quickly recovers, a mask of polite detachment descending, “May I come in?”

He almost asks a stupid question: _How did you know where I live_? but remembers that she and her people know everything. Danny sweeps a hand inside, watching as Frances walks by in her immaculately tailored charcoal jacket and skirt. The dark collar is upturned, severely framing her pale face. Before closing the door, he glances outside and sees a black town car parked in the drive, a uniformed driver standing outside the vehicle, staring back at him with an unwelcoming scowl.

But other than his presence, there are no random workers or vehicles. No spies.

“To what do I owe the pleasure?”

She must miss his tone, which drips with sarcasm, or decides to ignore it. “Has anyone contacted you?” she asks, staring out the enormous window that looks out across the nearby woods.

He immediately thinks of the van and the man on the pole. A couple days ago, another man rang the bell and claimed he needed to read his electricity meter, and Danny closed the door in his face. “Normal surveillance. Why?” He squints at her profile, the way she grips her fingers, and realizes she’s anxious.

A furrowed brow and moment of scrutiny, as though she’s dangling something incredibly obvious in front of his face but Danny can’t see it. She turns away eventually, disappointed in him, and he experiences a frustrating moment of embarrassment. Frances is a woman that one hates to disappoint, even if one hates her. Her arms cross and she gazes out the window, hands cradling arms as if to inspire warmth. “I would be mindful of your activities. Don’t travel. Stay indoors.”

Danny almost laughs. He can’t remember the last time he left the house, and he has to believe Frances is a woman who can recognize a recluse when she sees one. Threats have lost their power to scare Danny, so he sighs and briefly pinches the bridge of his nose. He’s not frightened anymore—just annoyed. “Why? What’s happened?”

When he looks up again, Frances is gazing back at him with something like pity in her gaze. This interests him because she’s never shown direct fondness for him. Danny has always been an undesirable byproduct of her son, a painful reminder of their collective mistakes. “I’m not sure.” And when his brow furrows because that is a most unsatisfying response, she adds: “Nothing yet. But there are rumblings.” She looks over his shoulder, to the shut door. “I must go. We won’t see each other again.”

 

**____________________________________**

 

He doesn’t stand in the drive to watch Frances depart. Instead, Danny shuts the door and rests his forehead against the cool surface for a moment, collecting his thoughts. After a few minutes, he tries to piece together what the hell just happened. He goes as far as retracing Frances’ steps to the window and her line of gaze as she stared outside into the backyard. He watches the trees swaying gently in the breeze, birds lazily sailing from one branch to the next, the verdant lawn still tended by the maintenance crew that visits every fortnight.

That’s when he sees it: the business card, resting flatly against the windowsill where Danny could not have spotted it from across the room.

He picks it up and observes the familiar text: The American’s business card. Danny flips it over, wondering if Frances has written something but the back is blank. He turns it over again and considers the title and phone number. A memory: standing on the roof, defiantly tearing the card to bits and allowing the London wind to scatter the remnants. He’d been so defiant back then—so young and stupidly, irrationally brave.

This time, Danny slides the card into his pocket. He briefly considers turning on the computer and reading some news article to see what’s happening in the world, but eventually decides against it. Scottie’s old home has become a fortress, its walls protecting him from the outside world. There could be riots and wild violence erupting in the streets of London, and Danny would never hear about it. At the moment, that’s quite alright by him. He walks into the bedroom and lays on the bed, intending to simply rest his eyes for a few moments, but he ends up sleeping for the rest of the afternoon and straight through the night.

In the morning, he has three texts from Sara, all a version of: “Please call me,” and one from Pavel that reads: “Where r u?” Strangely, they’ve also left him voicemails, which is unusual given that no one in his age range ever actually calls anyone else. He knows what this is about. Him skipping Pavel’s premiere. They’re cross with him. Well, he doesn’t want to hear it. Danny removes the battery from his phone and lets it die. After that, he doesn’t bother to recharge it. The petulant act won’t buy him much time. Eventually, Sara will stop by and corner him into a confrontation, but until then he plans to enjoy the peaceful existence of a hermit.

 

**____________________________________**

 

He must have passed out again. Furious pounding on the door wakes him and Danny grunts, rolling onto his side and squinting at the bedside clock. _10:34_. Without the structure of a work schedule, his days have bled into each other, his sleep schedule ripped to shreds, left to the whim of whenever his body decides to shut down from depression. Danny yanks on soiled jeans and a ripe sweater and staggers to the front door. Feeling self-destructive, he rips open the door without first looking through the peephole.

Two police officers are standing on the stoop, eyeing him suspiciously. “Mr. Miller?”

His heart twists into a hard little ball. “No…I’m Danny. Danny Holt. Scottie— _Mr. Miller_ left the house to me.” The officers share a wary glance and Danny feels a flare of annoyance. Even when he keeps to himself, these people won’t stop interfering. “I can show you the papers, if you want,” he spits.

“That won’t be necessary,” the older officer replies, “May we come in?”

Icy panic grips him because, even though he’s given up on happiness, Danny can’t squash his fighting reflex. Some small part of him still wants to survive. “What is this about?” He glances behind them to the patrol car. It looks real, but MI6 is _very_ good at giving the appearance of authenticity. “May I see some identification?”

“Of course,” the older officer replies while the younger, shorter bloke sighs, as if it’s a great imposition to reach into his pocket and retrieve his I.D. They show him their badges, one at a time, and Danny considers them as if he possesses an eye to spot forgeries. Maybe a fake license—he’s owned one or two of those in his lifetime—but not a fraudulent badge. The older chap’s name is Jim Abraham and the shorter one is called Lester Comstock. Danny wonders if he pulled an attitude because he didn’t want him knowing his stupid name. The idea lends believability to their story. Maybe they’re real coppers, after all. Only when he’s returned the badges does Jim continue: “The Prime Minister has issued an emergency order. All homes are subject to inspection.”

Danny stares at him for a moment, resting a sharp shoulder blade against the doorframe. “Inspection for what?”

Lester snorts. “Islamic State agents, of course. Haven’t you been watching the news?”

Jim shoots a look. Clearly, Lester has been warned about his smart mouth on more than one occasion. Danny is certain they, and the story, are real. Not even MI6 could play at being inept this convincingly. He turns and leads the way inside. “Has there been an attack?” His throat tightens, remembering the frantic messages from Sara and Pavel. Maybe it was another bomb. Or poison gas in the tube. He’s going to call them straight away, after the coppers have gone.

Jim presses a button on the walkie attached to his vest and mumbles some incomprehensible code into it. “There’s been a threat,” he says, removing his hat and tucking it beneath his arm. “Do you mind if we look around?”

Danny makes a gesture that means _feel free_. “That was quite a nice gesture on Mr. Miller’s part, leaving you this big house,” Lester comments as he walks across the parlor to peer out the back window. Danny watches Jim disappear into the bedroom, gaze flitting back to the younger officer. He already knows Lester will be far easier to press for information. He’s eager to talk—to show how very smart he is.

“We were close. What kind of threat?”

He pauses at Scottie’s writing desk and opens the drawer, and the smart part of Danny wants to point out there’s no tiny Islamic State agent hiding in there, but he doesn’t. “They have a nuclear weapon,” he comments lightly, as though discussing the weather, “And have declared they intend to detonate it somewhere inside the UK, so naturally everyone assumes London is the prime target. You know, after the 7th July bombings.”

The tips of Danny’s fingertips are numb and cold, usually the first sign of a looming panic attack. How could he have missed this? But then, he’s cut off himself from the outside world: no internet, no television, no visitors. Frances had tried to tell him something was happening, but he didn’t really want to hear it. “Where did they get the weapon?”

“Dunno. China. Russia. It’s anybody’s guess, innit?”

“But Russia was bombing ISIS in Syria,” Danny blurts. He has a distinct memory of Scottie reading him news from the paper and feeling excruciatingly bored, but that bit had stuck with him. He realizes his mistake when Lester casts a suspicious look his way. _Careful. Play dumb. He’s enjoying showing off_. “I thought I heard that somewhere…”

“Point is, they say they have one, so what does it matter where it came from? We’re sweeping the whole area, London, and the immediate areas around it, looking for agents.”

Jim emerges from the bedroom, a tight smile on his face, having overheard their conversation. “We’re also checking in with people. As you can imagine, the initial news caused quite a bit of panic.”

“The M25 was a car park,” Lester snorts.

“Indeed, so we’re encouraging individuals not to make any hasty traveling plans. Most of the airports are closed, you won’t get anywhere taking the major roadways, the banks have limited withdrawals to prevent an economic collapse…” Tingling joins the icy grip, numbing Danny to his elbows. He flexes his fingers slowly, hoping to coax the feeling back. Jim considers him for a moment and Danny decides he has a kind face. “This is probably an intimidation tactic. We’re just being cautious.”

“Why aren’t they sending special police? You’re not even in proper gear.” Danny once saw a drug raid on his neighbor’s flat and those blokes stormed the place in face plates and helmets.

Lester takes offense to this, puffing out his vested chest. “What d’ya call this, hm? Besides, it’s all hands on deck. Counter-terrorism units can only do so much, y’know.”

Without his hat, Jim looks older. Like a father, with greying temples. “Officer Comstock. Will you please search the other rooms?”

“Yes, Chief Inspector,” he answers, hurrying down the hallway.

Danny glances at Jim’s sleeve, to the three diamonds insignia on his epaulette. “Are you working with the intelligence agencies?” he asks.

The Chief Inspector offers what Danny has discerned is his polite, business appropriate smile. Tight-lipped. No teeth. “We always coordinate with them, but to be perfectly candid: it’s been chaotic the past few weeks. I can’t imagine what a madhouse it must be like at MI6,” he chuckles, shaking his head.

He nods slowly, mulling this news, which puts the past few weeks in a fresh perspective. He hasn’t noticed any repairmen in the neighbor. No surveillance vans. Perhaps they’ve pulled all resources from him, now that he’s considered low priority. Danny is acutely aware of the American’s business card nestled inside his pocket. Still there, because something told him not to throw it away after Frances’ departure.

Danny tugs the ends of his sleeves over his fingertips, hoping to warm them.

“All clear,” Lester announces, emerging from the hallway.

“Thank you very much for your time,” Jim says, turning to Danny.

“No, thank _you_ ,” he replies.

 

**____________________________________**

 

Neither Sara or Pavel pick up their phones. Pavel’s doesn’t even ring. Instead, an automated message plays: _The user you are attempting to call cannot be reached_. He’s so desperate and panicked that he briefly thinks about calling his mum and dad (if his dad is even still alive), but instead he turns on the computer and spends hours catching up on the news. The internet is still working for the time being, thankfully. Everything the officers told him is true. The Islamic State claims to be in possession of a nuclear weapon, a suitcase nuclear weapon, to be precise, which has whipped up everyone into a special kind of frenzy because this means the weapon of mass destruction is highly portable. Easily stowed beneath a tube seat or at the back of a bus.

Escape from the city and surrounding areas is impossible. The roadways are blocked with abandoned vehicles (when drivers encountered traffic, they simply parked and walked along the major roadways on foot), and all airports have suspended flights, with the exceptions of military, elected officials, and diplomats. The Prime Minister has called for British citizens to remain calm, but the inevitable has already happened— _is happening_ : rioting, looting, the emergence of doomsday cults.

Danny shuts his laptop when it all becomes too much and braces elbows atop the desk, hands covering his face. Had Frances known this was going to happen? Had it already happened by the time she visited? _Has anyone contacted you? Be mindful of your activities. Stay indoors. Don’t travel_. She had been warning him, he’d known that, but he’d assumed she was warning him about MI6—not this. The end of the world. A stark reminder that, however terrible one’s immediate enemies, there is always some force out there that is bigger and far worse.

He slides out the card from his pocket and places it on the closed back of his laptop. Then Danny straightens the edge so it’s parallel to the desk’s edge. An Alex maneuver. He feels sick at the memory.

Danny picks up the landline phone, which he never uses because it’s bugged by MI6. But none of that matters anymore. No one is listening to him because no one cares about him. A memory: Scottie standing on a ferry. _A place where no one cares_. Such a nice idea, unless that place is forged in the smoking crater of an atomic bomb. He dials the number on the card and patiently waits as the steady ring fills his ear. He is fully prepared for no one to answer. Who, in their right mind, is still working? Everyone has packed up and is running as far away from London as they can. No one is responding to business phone calls because the world has ended.

There’s a click on the line, then silence. Danny’s eyes flit as he listens. “Hello?” he finally rasps.

“Ah,” responds a familiar voice, “I was wondering when you were going to call me.”

 

**____________________________________**

 

A few hours later, The American is seated in his parlor, nursing a cup of Earl Grey. Danny warily eyes him as he stands by the window, as though the man is the device everyone is searching for, and he could potentially detonate at any moment. “Is it true?” he quietly asks. “Do they have a bomb?”

“I’m afraid not even I am in possession of that information,” he declares, leaning forward to place the cup and saucer on the table. “But I would advise you stop dealing in unknown variables and start looking at this as an opportunity.” When Danny’s only response is a sullen look, he sighs: “No one is interested in our movements right now. I can secure a flight to the states for you.”

He spends a moment quietly absorbing the offer. Of course, he’d suspected the American works for the CIA, but that has now been confirmed. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have access to any flights. “I don’t have a passport.”

“That’s all been taken care of. You’ll be traveling under a different name as a contractor for the CIA. You may have to lie to some security personnel, but I imagine that won’t be a problem for you.”

“Why are you doing this for me?”

“Because I’ve been hired to do this for you.” Danny rubs his bearded jaw and looks out the window again. _Frances_. A parting gift. But why? Maybe lingering guilt, a final gesture for Alex. “I was meant to do this a long time ago, but you never called me.”

“I tore up your card,” he mumbles, the American chuckling at his back.

Danny gazes over his shoulder at the man. “Well, that explains that, anyway.” The American considers him. “You look like shit. I can set you up somewhere safe. You’ll be well cared for. Trust me, you don’t want to turn down my offer this time.”

“Scottie left me his home.” It’s irrational, but he feels protective of the place. He hates the idea of people looting it, stealing and setting fire to Scottie’s possessions, a nuclear blast tearing it apart.

The man doesn’t look impressed. “I doubt he’d want you to die here.”

“You said you’re not even sure they have the bomb.”

“I don’t mean from the bomb _necessarily_ ,” he remarks, brows raised, and Danny understands his point.

He’s lost too much weight, stopped bathing and shaving, and no longer sleeps properly. Bomb or no bomb, he’ll be dead soon, if he stays in Scottie’s house. Danny touches the cool glass of the window, index finger pad leaving a smudge of rings that are entirely unique to his body. This body, that he has allowed to wither away. He thinks about how sad that fact would make Scottie. How Alex would mourn. _Alex_. He still thinks about him because their love existed, even if nothing else was real. Alex wouldn’t want him to die like this.

“What do I have to do?”

 

**____________________________________**

 

His fake name is David Williams, but the photo is him. He’s impressed and a little curious about where they got the picture, but he doesn’t want to ask any superfluous questions because the American has already rattled off an intimidating amount of information he has to digest and memorize in time for their arrival at Heathrow. David Williams is a research and development contractor with the CIA, who is relocating to Washington D.C. in order to assist with the disaster response to recent international events.

Before leaving, Danny showered, shaved off his beard and trimmed his hair to match the photo, and dressed in clean clothing. He packed a small bag with a few items of clothing and tokens to remind him of Scottie: a wristwatch, reading glasses, his favorite pen set. Little things to look at when he’s thousands of miles away from home.

He quietly digests this information, then asks: “Is that actually happening?” The American looks up from the leather-bound dossier on his lap. “Are people flying to the states because they think London will be a fallout zone soon?”

The man sighs and removes a pair of small, silver reading glasses from his face. “I won’t bullshit you. Many officials and intelligence personnel are doing that. We’re setting up a response center in D.C. should the unthinkable happen.” Danny grows quiet and looks out the window. They have a police escort helping them navigate the roadways, signaling to officers to clear the way so they can drive through. The streets are mostly empty, but he sees signs of the chaos that unfolded weeks ago: shattered storefront windows, graffiti, overturned cars—one is on fire, he sees, nearly pressing his face to the glass to gape at it as they drive by. The driver and American are totally unfazed. They’ve had more time to process all of this. He watches the cityscape pass by, knowing this could be the last time he will see this city that he loves with his entire heart, even if he could not properly love it back as of late because his heart is broken. “This is all hypothetical,” the American adds, kindly, knowing Danny is upset, “Just a worst case scenario.”

 

**____________________________________**

 

He cloaks himself in denial, using it as armor to get through the next steps: leaving the city, with who knows how many people left behind maybe waiting to be vaporized. Walking through the airport, keeping his facial features schooled during every step of security, even when they take his photo and scan it through British and international databases. “I worked R&D with MI6 for a few years and now I’m assisting in the response to recent international events,” he repeats, maintaining eye contact with the stone-faced guard.

Every second, he’s sure he’ll be exposed as a fraud, but they keep advancing through security until finally they’re sitting inside a small white jet on the runway. Only then does he realize his fingers are gripping his kneecaps. He releases them and smoothes the fabric of his slacks, exhaling, and reaching down to open his rucksack, pulling out a clear plastic bag containing all the bottles of pills.

“What’s that?” the American asks, gazing at him from across the aisle.

“Medication. I’m HIV-positive,” he says, not seeing a good reason to lie. The American quietly watches him shake out a blue pill into his palm but doesn’t respond, which is strange because in Danny’s experience even the most unemotional people fall to pieces when he informs them of his status. People don’t really understand the virus, believing it to be a certain death sentence. Most don’t know Danny will probably live a long, relatively healthy life. “I’ll need to transfer my prescriptions when we get to the states.”

The American looks away, centers his crown on the headrest, and shuts his eyes. “We’ll talk about all that when we land.”

 

**____________________________________**

 

Danny can’t sleep during the flight, maybe because he’s spent years in a semi-comatose state and has finally snapped out of it. The lone flight attendant offers him a glass of wine, and he accepts, even though he’s not supposed to drink on his medication. He also gratefully accepts the in-flight meal, which is a bit of steak and mashed potatoes, plus a moist mini-brownie. A large part of him finds the whole ritual bizarre—that there’s still a flight attendant who serves tiny meals to travelers, while madmen transport a nuclear device through the streets of London.

The American doesn’t stir at all, wrapped tightly in his trench coat that he never seems to shed.

After the flight attendant comes round to collect his rubbish, he opens his bag and pulls out Scottie’s things, just to feel the weight of them in his hands. _You taught me to survive, so that’s what I’m doing_ , he thinks, unfolding the spectacles and holding them up, trying to remember Scottie’s face behind them. He carefully refolds and places them inside the case, depositing it back inside the bag. The sky is darkening outside, but it won’t matter because all he can see is endless blue anyway. The moment should feel hugely significant because he’s never been on a plane before, nor has he ever left Britain, but all he can think is he’d rather be back home, snuggled under Scottie’s blankets.

He looks over at the American just as the man is opening his eyes. They stare at each other for a moment.

“Did MI6 hire that escort to seduce Alex?”

The man blinks owlishly. “Yes.”

“To destroy us?”

He clears his throat, reaching down to straighten his seat, aware Danny has prepared for a serious conversation and he should too. “Partly. They wanted to compromise Alex so that he would focus on his work, and not on you.”

“You tried to warn me that I would be infected. The pill you gave me, inside the sweet.” The man watches him, amusement gleaming in his eyes. “Why were you giving me these warnings? Planting these clues?”

“Not me. My employer. We thought you’d call much earlier.”

“Who is your employer? Frances? Is she working for the CIA?”

The American fishes something from his trench coat pocket. It’s candy. Perhaps Danny talking about them activated his sweet tooth. He unwraps one and pops it into his mouth, luxuriating for a moment, then rolls it into his cheek so the skin bulges as he speaks: “Everyone thinks there are _sides_ , but there’re really only opportunists. You think there are these teams: MI6 and the CIA, but the truth is more complicated than that. Grayer, if you will.”

“What’s the point of talking in riddles? Surely, you can tell me everything now.” Danny gestures towards the window, but really means: _Now that the world has ended._ Alex had been working to end all lies, and in a way his vision has been fulfilled, or _should be_ fulfilled. What’s the point of lying if they’re all about to die?

“Not my place to tell you these things. Patience. All will be revealed in time,” the American mumbles, eyes slipping shut once more.

Danny watches him, mildly fascinated that he plans to sleep while sucking on a sweet. Clearly, the American doesn’t fear petty mortal conundrums like choking. He eventually turns away, looking out the window, lost to his thoughts.

 

**____________________________________**

 

They land eight hours later, tires colliding with the runway, the jet’s jostling waking Danny, who has no clear memory of ever falling asleep. He practically leaps out of his seat once they’re given the all clear by the captain. “Where are we going in D.C.?” he asks, vision still swimming as he grips the rucksack’s strap and throws it over his shoulder.

“We’re not in D.C.. We’re at JFK,” the American cooly responds, straightening his coat and buttoning it, ignoring Danny’s hostile glare until he finally looks up and sighs, “We’re heading upstate. I can’t tell you more than that, so stop asking.”

They replicate the lies through security on the American side, though passage isn’t quite as easy. He and the American, who is traveling under the fake name Jeffrey Reid, are pulled into a private room for questioning. _Standard protocol_ , they’re assured, given the heightened security concerns. Danny regurgitates the memorized story about working in research and development, and the American fields most of the other questions, for which Danny is grateful because he has a limited understanding of what, exactly, a tech person would say. Alex would know all the proper jargon, and as he sits on the hard plastic chair, he begins to think of his deceased partner, and depression crashes down atop him so that it’s difficult to stand and continue walking through the airport once they’re cleared to leave.

The change in his mood must be tangible because the American eventually asks: “You feeling sick?”

He shakes his head, “No. I just want to know what’s going on.”

“You will soon,” the man replies as the airport doors _whoosh_ and they walk outside. Normally, there would be taxis and cars queued up by the road, but now there’s nothing. No people, no cars, save for the lone black town car waiting for them. A driver pops the boot and takes their bags and then they’re seated inside a heated car driving along the highway. The road has been recently plowed, a comforting sign of normalcy, though as they proceed north, he notices the snow drifts grow larger, as though no one has come round to clear them in quite some time.

His stomach growls and the American produces a little bag of nuts, probably procured from the jet. Danny quietly thanks him and accepts it, devouring the meager meal. Afterwards, he cracks open a miniature bottle of water waiting for him in the medium cup holder and drains it. No one speaks. The driver doesn’t even play any music. The only sounds are the car moving over asphalt and the creak of leather seats whenever one of them shifts position. It’s not until Danny spots a sign for _Albany_ that the American speaks: “Do you have a cell phone on you?” Danny shakes his head. “A laptop? Anything that can be used to trace you?”

“No,” he says, visualizing exactly where he left all of those items inside Scottie’s house. 

“Good,” the American says, then looks out his window, indicating their conversation is over.

The drive is almost as long as the flight, and this time Danny doesn’t possess the adrenaline to remain alert throughout the journey. He wakes sometime later, cheek pressed between the leather seat and the window’s cool glass. The terrain has shifted dramatically. They’re far outside the metropolis, now surrounded by snowcapped mountains and the occasional quaint town. Danny waits a long time before any sign appears, and even then it’s partially obscured by snow, but he makes out the name: _Buffalo._

“Are we close?” he asks, unable to help the pleading tone that makes him sound like a petulant child. It’s beginning to feel like they’re going to be driving forever.

He’s surprised when the American supplies information: “We’re going to Attica. It’s a small town just outside Buffalo. Very remote.”

Danny’s chest tightens. For the first time, it occurs to him this may be a trap instead of an opportunity. “What’s in Attica?”

“Your future,” the American replies, and when Danny looks at him, his brows are quirked in a comical fashion. Deliberately cryptic. He sort of wants to punch the man in his arm, but instead resentfully stares out the window.

The driver takes the exit towards Attica and they continue to drive a while, veering off a series of increasingly bumpier roads until they’re crawling along a gravel path. Thankfully, the steep incline has been recently plowed, “For our arrival,” the American notes, “Usually, this road is impassable.” Danny strains to see through the windshield but all he can see are enormous evergreen trees and deep white beds of snow, pristine, untouched by human feet. The car stops at the end of the plowed portion of the path. “This is as far as we can go without chains,” the man says, jabbing his finger against the window, pointing towards a cabin that is no more than a dot on the horizon. “That’s your new home.”

Danny stares at him for a moment before realizing this is the American’s version of a goodbye. He gapes at the ocean of snow between the car and the cabin. “I don’t even have boots,” he remarks, gesturing helplessly to his Vans.

“Everything is waiting inside for you. I didn’t have time to bring gear for you,” adding, as a consolatory afterthought, “I’m sorry.”

The driver pops the boot but doesn’t move to climb out of the car. Danny is officially on his own. He grips the car door handle and looks at the American. “Is this a trick?”

The amused glint is back. “You think we would have brought you out here for that? If we wanted you dead, there were a thousand opportunities before this moment, Danny. We could have come for you in your sleep, made it look like you died while you were dreaming. You were kept alive for a reason, and all you have to do is walk for fifteen minutes, and endure some mildly cold appendages, to learn the answers to all your questions.”

Phrased that way, it feels foolish to have waited so long. Danny opens the door, a gust of frigid air blasting him in the face. He glances back at the American. “I feel like I should say thank you, or something.”

“Don’t thank me. I’m getting paid. But shut the door. You’re letting the heat out.”

It’s colder than he imagined outside, the wind cutting right through his joke of a coat. Danny clutches it shut at his throat as he retrieves the rucksack from the boot, slamming the door shut and slapping it twice, a rhythmic _bon voyage_ as he severs the last tether between him and the modern world. Despite what the American says, he can’t shake the feeling that he’s being left here to die. Strangely, the idea doesn’t upset him. What’s the difference between dying alone here versus Scottie’s home? At least here, there’s a slim chance of securing some answers.

He steps up onto the shelf of snow to find it’s frozen solid and can support his weight. One small mercy, anyway. Danny looks back to the car and is surprised to see the American has rolled down his window and is waving. Though it’s ridiculous, he waves back, knowing they’ll never see each other again. He turns, setting a quick pace with the cabin in his sights. The Vans (which he wants to burn after this ordeal) are useless in this environment, lacking any traction so he frequently slips and slides all over the place, shoes swiftly filling with snow and freezing his toes as he jogs towards the destination.

The wind threatens to blow him sideways but Danny trudges forth, the cabin growing larger, details emerging through the curtain of blown snow: it’s a proper wooden cabin, though renovated and featuring great big glass windows on the second story. The windows are lit up, meaning there’s electricity, which is good, but also that someone may be inside. He’s too cold to be filled with dread by the time he reaches the front door and raps it with frozen knuckles. He clutches the rucksack to his chest, trembling and waiting, and has begun to accept no one is inside when the door flies open.

Danny stares, just now realizing he’s gone mad because standing in front of him is a bearded Alex.

Infinite silence. He doesn’t feel cold anymore. He doesn’t feel anything.

The world tilts, Alex is now far away, and Danny can suddenly feel the cold again. It’s at the back of his skull as he lays in a pile of snow. The wind howls. His vision darkens.

 

**____________________________________**

 

He awakes in a soft bed. He’s in Scottie’s house. The whole thing was a bizarre dream. Danny rolls onto his back and sees a large light fixture dangling above his head, which is strange because Scottie’s bedroom contains no such accessory. He glances down and notices he’s dressed in jeans and a sweater. Danny sits up slowly, wincing, because the back of his head hurts for some reason. The room is decorated modestly: a closet, a bureau, bed, with a trunk at the foot. This place reminds him of something. Some place.

Alex is standing in the doorway, looking at him.

Danny gasps and shoves aside the blankets, scooting upwards until his back is pressed flat to the wooden headboard, as if fearing the man may attack him. He might, for all Danny knows. He’s learned not to rule anything out.

The man who looks like Alex holds up his hands in a pacifying gesture. “It’s alright. You’re safe.”

Which is a rich thing to say. “Who are you?” Danny blurts.

Confusion washes across the man’s face. “You know who I am.”

“ _No_ ,” Danny angrily replies, jabbing a finger in his direction. “I don’t bloody well know. Alex is dead. I found his body in a fucking trunk.”

Now sadness in the man’s eyes. Maybe pity too. The idea makes Danny hot with rage.

“I know you have questions, and I’m going to tell you everything, but you must understand that I didn’t know this would happen, Danny. I didn’t know it would go this far.”

“No,” he gasps, climbing out of bed. This isn’t what he wants to hear. Excuses. More lies. These people are everywhere and they’re always handling him, and now they’ve sent an Alex double as part of their sick, twisted plans.

“Where are you going?” the man asks as Danny shoves past him.

He’s apparently on the second floor, Danny gleans, when he marches over a landing and looks out the large window to his left. Outside below are acres of white snow. He can’t even see the road that brought him here. He quickly spots the staircase and thunders down the steps, gripping the railing for support because he still feels nauseous and everything is a bit wobbly, into the spacious parlor. There’s a fire going in the hearth, which he pointedly ignores because he’s spotted the front door. The man shouts after him as he races across the floor and throws it open, to do what he does not know. He can’t leave. He’s not even wearing shoes and socks. Maybe he just wanted to know the option of leaving is still there.

“ _Danny_ ,” the man gasps, sounding so much like Alex that Danny slams shut the door and collapses against it, eyes pinching shut as he sobs. _Not this. Please don’t do this._ Of all the cruel games, this is the worst, more tortuous than the fabricated love of his parents. MI6 has hired this man, a double, to pretend to be Alex, to lull Danny into a false sense of security so he’ll live here with him, far away from where he can meddle and cause trouble. “Danny,” the man whispers again, and the handlers certainly knows how to hire good actors, because he sounds genuinely sad. The man reaches for him and gently touches his shoulder.

Danny yanks free his arm as though he’s been electrocuted. “ _Don’t_ ,” he groans, spinning to face the impostor. “Is this a lie? Please tell me. If it is, it’ll kill me.”

The man takes a step backwards, eyes wide and shimmering with unshed tears. “It really is me. Ask me anything. I’ll prove it.” He sounds determined, though his voice quakes.

What could he possibly ask that the handlers wouldn’t know? They eavesdropped on all their conversations. They know about Danny’s whole life. “What was the code for the cylinder?”

"0000001.” Danny shuts his eyes again, a fist clenched to his chest. He bangs his head against the door, hoping the sharp jolt of pain will give him some clarity. Could the handlers know that too? The man pretending to be Alex makes a soft noise of concern. A memory: Danny slicing his finger while chopping a carrot, and Alex, making the same empathetic sound, as though he hated the idea of Danny ever being in pain. “It was my love letter to you,” the man adds, sounding sad and embarrassed. Whoever he is, he’s studied Alex very, very closely, “You were right. About us being soul mates. I understood that too late. I was hoping to show you…should I never have had the chance to tell you in person.”

Slowly, he opens his eyes. This man is the exact same height. The shoulders are correct, as is his nose. “Hold up your hands,” he rasps and the man obeys: fronts, then backs. Alex’s hands. Danny hasn’t seen him in years, but he hasn’t forgotten these details. His cheeks warm as the tears flow. “Your body…was in the trunk,” he rasps, again holding up his hands, demanding the man stop when he steps forward with the intention of touching him. He can’t bear that. Not until he understands what’s happened.

Alex, the real Alex, straightens to his full height and sucks in a deep breath. “I was in the trunk for a long time…” Alex trails off, eyes glassy, “But they let me out. I don’t know what you saw. Maybe a body double. The police worked with MI6 to fake my death.”

“Why not a car accident? Why that way?” Danny gasps, clutching the other hand to his chest as well to keep his hands from quaking.

“To completely destroy my credibility. And yours. They wanted me to stop my research. One of my colleagues described it as the atomic bomb of espionage. British officials were afraid that the technology could be used against our own people, so I was ordered to stop, but…I couldn’t.” Alex stops speaking and Danny realizes he’s overcome with emotion, his Adam’s Apple bobbing beneath the collar of his sweater. “I was obsessed. With you, with the research. I couldn’t stop and they knew it, so they decided to intervene. They were afraid I had told you about the project. 

“Frances…”

“She only recently found out I’m alive. They kept me locked in the trunk, torturing me, until they were certain I would stop the research and never contact you again.”

“But you did contact me.”

“No, I contacted the American, who contacted you,” Alex sucks in a deep breath, “A rhetorical loophole. Took me ages to think of it under duress, but it helped me pass the test. I’ve stopped the research, though. That part was too risky to lie about.” Danny closes his eyes, absorbing everything he’s been told, Alex’s soft voice filling his ears: “The one that took the longest to convince them of was that I wouldn’t contact you. I could lie about everything, but I couldn’t lie about that. So I had to trick them.”

“Are you still working for MI6?”

“I’m not working for anyone, at the moment. Three weeks ago, I stopped receiving regular communications from headquarters.”

Danny eases off the door, cutting a wide circumference around Alex, walking back towards the fire. Standing near the door has chilled him and he wants to warm up by the flames. “It’s the bomb. They’re looking for it in London.”

“They seem to have forgotten about me, for the time being, which is how we were able to transport you.”

He sits on the stone ledge, extending his cold fingers towards the metal grate. When he gazes over his shoulder, Alex is standing in the same location, but turned towards him so his back is aimed at the door. He’s afraid to move too suddenly at the risk of spooking Danny. “You lied to me about everything,” he accuses.

“No, not everything,” Alex stubbornly replies.

Danny shoots an unimpressed look. “I would say neglecting to mention you’re a spy is a lie, Alex.”

The man winces, wounded by the accusation. “I thought I was keeping you safe.”

“In what way did you keep me safe? I’ve been stalked and terrorized. I’ve been infected with HIV,” he seethes, voice raising despite his best efforts. Danny has so much anger inside him that he’s never properly addressed over the entire affair.

“You’re not infected.”

The blood drains away from his face and he feels cold, despite his close proximity to the fire. He stares at Alex, who once again looks agonized and terrified, perhaps afraid Danny really will dart from the cabin this time. “Yes, I am,” he replies flatly, “A police officer confirmed it with a hospital. I’ve been taking drugs.”

“The labs were compromised by MI6. Your police contact was fed bad information. I know this for a fact, Danny. The company Sara hired to ship you drugs has been sending placebos—sugar pills.”

He feels dizzy. “Why go to the trouble? They already killed you, no one believed my story, why…?”

“They wanted you to kill yourself. It’s neater, if people do it themselves…” Danny jumps to his feet and stalks towards the staircase. “Danny, wait! You wanted the truth…”

“I’m done with you people!” he roars, whipping around on the stairs to face Alex, who steps backwards, eyes huge in alarm. “You ruined my life! I don’t trust you! I’ve had so many people meddling with my mind, I don’t know what’s true anymore.”

Alex’s mournful gaze is the last thing he sees before turning away and trudging up the stairs, the man’s voice quiet and resigned: “I love you.”

 

**____________________________________**

 

Danny rests in the bed, afraid to sleep, and eventually Alex appears in the doorway again. He sits up and glances at the bedside table. Ten o’clock. Perhaps the man wants to sleep. “You take the bed,” Alex offers, “I don’t mind the couch.” He drapes his legs over the side of the bed and sighs, deflating, elbows propped against his knees. The fight has largely drained from him. Shouldn’t he feel happy? Alex is alive and he’s not sick. This is good news.

Instead of happiness, he feels a void. A vacuum.

What are his options? He can’t leave. Danny wouldn’t make it to the main highway before he froze to death.

Perhaps anticipating his train of thought, Alex speaks again: “I can make arrangements, if you want to leave. I don’t think they’ll find you. There’s too much going on right now.” The sadness in his voice does not escape him. Alex thought their reunion would be joyous and Danny is behaving like a stranger.

“I don’t want to leave,” he concedes. Things feel unfinished between them.

Alex nods, sated by the declaration. At least Danny doesn’t prefer running into a tundra over spending time with him. It’s something. “Okay. Good. I’ll be on the couch.”

Then he’s gone.

Danny stares at the dark space where he was standing a moment ago. He realizes the sensation is a numbness, like the kind one experiences after traumatic injury. The brief moment of surreal nothingness before the crashing pain. But in reverse, because the agony has already come and gone, and now Danny simply feels numb all the time. His brain vibrates from the aftershock.

He finds prescribed sleeping pills in the medicine cabinet of the master loo and takes one. Danny doesn’t recognize the name on the label and is utterly unsurprised. He passes out on the bed, face-down, and descends into blissful nothingness for twelve hours. Jet leg. When he wakes, the room is full of natural light, which is when he notices the skylight for the first time. The cabin is beautiful and Danny wishes he was in a place where he could appreciate it. Years ago, the idea of being alone with Alex in a snowy cabin would have been a fantasy.

He stumbles from the bedroom and walks downstairs to find Alex awake and cooking inside the spacious kitchen. From the looks of it, eggs and sausage. The space reminds him of the man’s flat back in London: modern, utilitarian, gorgeous in a brutally sleek way. Lots of stainless steel and black marble. “Hello,” the man says, cautiously, unsure of where they stand.

Danny climbs onto a stool by the kitchen bar and squints at him. “Is there tea?”

“Of course,” Alex says, mildly affronted, still very much an Englishman. He fills the kettle and sets it atop a lit burner. When it percolates, he pours it over a bag, steeps the tea, tosses the bag into the rubbish, and presents the amber liquid to Danny.

As he moves about, Danny watches him. He was wrong before. Alex doesn’t look exactly the same. He’s thinner in places, broader in others. There are dark circles under his eyes. The man plates the food and places one before Danny. “You need to eat. You’re too thin.”

“You should talk,” Danny murmurs, picking up a fork to spear a chunk of sausage. He’s starving and the smell of fried meat is making his mouth water. In between mouthfuls, he nurses the tea. _Earl Grey_. Alex’s favorite.

Alex doesn’t respond as he settles onto a stool opposite the bar. They eat quietly, so like their old routine all those years ago that Danny eventually sets down the flatware and stares at Alex until the man stops eating too and looks back at him. He refuses to play house, as though they haven’t endured unimaginable horrors. “Frances told me the truth, about your real mum, but I want to hear it from you. Tell me about your real life.”

The fork prongs push around mounds of egg a moment longer before Alex places his fork against the plate and clears his throat. “I grew up in isolation. There’s something…different about the way I think. The experts said I was gifted, but there was also a diagnosis of a personality disorder. I’ve always had trouble with emotions and making friends, which didn’t really impede my work because I wasn’t expected to interact with people. They locked me in a room and left me alone with my calculations. It was like when I was growing up.” Alex pauses, smiling thinly. “It felt familiar. But then I met you.”

Danny thinks about telling Alex about his real mum: the fire, the burning estate. But he doesn’t see the point.

“I thought you had anxiety or were shy, but those times you were so paranoid when we were out in public…”

“I was afraid they were monitoring us. They _were_ monitoring us.”

His throat tightens, face warming: “I burned your things. I thought—” Danny gasps and looks down at his hands, angry and embarrassed that he’s crying again. “They wouldn’t allow me at the funeral. I used to imagine what I would say to you. I thought I wouldn’t care about the lies, but I do…”

“You should care,” Alex says, extending a hand, palm turned upwards.

Danny hesitates but takes his hand, and feels some of the tension drain from Alex. He’s relieved Danny has allowed this small sign of forgiveness. “Scottie’s dead,” he rasps.

Alex looks away, to their laced fingers. “I know. I’m so sorry.”

“My parents lied to me. They used my parents against me.”

The man is quiet for a moment, face blank, but Danny knows that’s because whatever Alex is feeling is so enormous that he’s trying to deal with it internally, afraid expressing the turmoil will destroy him—a symptom of an abandoned child, one who realized long ago that no one would come if he cried.

“You would have been happier if you’d never known me.”

The words cause a deep ache inside his chest. As angry and disillusioned as he feels, despite his harsh words the day before, he won’t allow the man to think that. “No,” he whispers, squeezing Alex’s hand, “Everyone tried to tell me you weren’t real at first. And when they couldn’t do that, they tried to convince me our love wasn’t real, but I _knew_ they were lying. What you and I have is real.”

Alex looks up, hopeful. “Have?”

“Yes.” Danny slowly withdraws his hand, “I never stopped loving you, but I need some time, to think about everything.”

Alex nods, gaze so earnest and happy that Danny feels like a monster for keeping him waiting. But the stubborn part of him doesn’t want to rush toward absolution. He’s done that too many times in the past for men he’s loved who have hurt him. Besides, he’s earned the right to stew in bitterness for a while. The decision becomes more difficult to maintain once Alex spoons his remaining breakfast onto Danny’s plate. “Here. Eat more.”

Danny’s gaze softens and he obeys the order, knowing from the way Alex is looking at his thin wrists and jagged hips that he’s worried about his health.

 

**____________________________________**

 

The first few days, they don’t interact frequently. Danny spends a lot of time in Alex’s room, reading from a pile of books the man has stacked in the corner. They’re mostly concerning maths, but there’s a few history books too. It’s dry material, but the texts serve as a distraction between periods of napping.

When tired of reading, he looks through his rucksack, at the meager artifacts of his previous life. Frequently, he lifts Scottie’s old reading glasses from their case and looks at them, wondering: _Well, old friend, now what should I do?_ He would give his right leg for five minutes of speaking with Scottie again, to hear his sage advice.

Alex has apparently been gathering supplies in anticipation of his arrival, and Danny has plenty of warm clothing, socks, and a nice sturdy pair of boots waiting for him inside the closet. Everything is the correct size, albeit his old clothing size, so he has to wear a belt to keep the trousers from dropping down. He mumbles in thanks at this gift, ashamed that he’s being so frigid towards his former lover, and then annoyed that he feels any shame at all.

Danny dons one of his gifts, a puffy fleece jacket, and goes on walks in the nearby woods. It isn’t like the old days when Alex was too paranoid to allow him to stray too far from their home, though he can never go very far anyway because the snow is so deep and he gets tired quickly. Plus, there’s nothing to see. Just endless snow. Even the animals have burrowed underground or flown south for the winter. Whenever he returns, the man looks relieved, as though he had imagined that would be the last time he’d see Danny. It’s in those moments that Danny wants to rush into his arms, but he won’t allow it just yet. Something inside him still aches, a heavy weight that keeps him forever anchored just outside Alex’s reach.

One day, he walks down the steps to discover Alex seated on the couch, looking at a laptop’s screen. He’s surprised, considering the American stressed the importance of not possessing a traceable device. Alex notices him staring and smiles slightly. “They’re not concerned with us right now.”

He recalls Alex’s previous hubris and bites back the nasty thought: _That’s what you thought last time_. “Any word from home?”

“Counter-terrorism picked up a person of interest. I imagine they’re interrogating him for information about the cell with the bomb.”

Danny fetches a glass of water from the kitchen and joins Alex in the parlor. He’d considered a walk, but it’s so warm inside the cabin that it’s difficult to summon the motivation and energy to go outside. “Do you think they really have a bomb?”

“Yes,” Alex replies plainly, in his blunt way. Danny stares into his glass until Alex realizes he’s delivered extremely stark news in a callous way and adds: “MI6 used to brainstorm various disaster scenarios, sort of like war games, but for the end of the world. This was always a number one or number two-ranked scenario. I’m amazed it took this long to happen. You’d be astonished how many deadly weapons are kept in relatively accessible storage units.”

“I don’t want to know,” Danny mumbles, swirling the water so it sloshes close to the glass’s lip.

Alex closes the computer and turns towards him on the couch. “We’ll be protected from the fallout.”

“But millions will die, Alex. All my friends. My family. Don’t you care?”

He blinks. “Of course I care. That’s why I started the project. I was trying to stop something like this.”Danny doesn’t respond. He’s too upset thinking about a smoking hole in the ground where London used to be, all those people reduced to singed shadows. Alex tone softens: “They may stop it yet. They have a suspect. That’s encouraging.”

Danny nods slightly and says, “True,” before guzzling the glass dry.

 

**____________________________________**

 

On the fourth night, a man’s shouting wakes him from sleep. Danny races from the room, clad only in his pajama bottoms, carrying a thick book on the Second World War, for some reason. In his hazy state, he thought maybe it could serve as a weapon. He ends up leaving the book on the landing once he realize the shouts are Alex. The man is thrashing on the downstairs couch, face twisted in agony because he’s having a nightmare. “No, no,” he groans, fingers atrophied as though attempting to claw free from an imagined confined space. “Danny!” he wails.

His heart clenches painfully as he attempts to pin Alex’s arms down before he hurts himself. “Alex,” he whispers, touching his burning brow, “Alex, wake up.”

He doesn’t know how long they kept Alex in the trunk, but any period of time would have been traumatic. Danny wipes the man’s cheeks, which are wet with tears, eyes shut, brow furrowed as he chants his name. Had Alex done that while he was trapped? He says Danny’s name like a prayer.

“ _Alex_ ,” he insists, shaking him gently, enough to get the man to open his eyes. “You’re having a bad dream,” he soothes, kneeling beside the couch.

Alex lays there for a moment, breathing deeply and staring up with black eyes, then surges up to kiss him. Danny makes a soft noise of distress and pulls back. “I’m sorry,” Alex apologizes at once, face crumbling, covering his face with trembling hands.

Danny peels them away so he can see his eyes. The same eyes from all those years ago: timid and lost, unsure and afraid. He leans down and presses their lips together in a tentative kiss—Danny hesitant to explore and Alex too frightened to reciprocate. Still, when he leans back to look at his face, Alex has stopped shaking and his gaze is more curious than petrified. “I like this,” Danny comments, running his fingertips through Alex’s beard.

“I missed you,” the man croaks.

Danny helps him from the couch. “Come to bed,” he says, leading the way upstairs.

 

**____________________________________**

 

They don’t have sex, but Alex holds him for the remainder of the night, Danny’s back to the man’s chest, Alex’s face buried against the crook of his neck. It feels achingly good. He hasn’t felt warm and safe in ages, and assumed he would never feel loved again. Alex kisses and nuzzles his neck, perhaps wanting more, but being too afraid to ask. Danny isn’t ready for that yet anyway.

“I always wanted it to be just you and me, and now that may really happen,” Danny confesses, a tear slipping free and sliding down his cheek to wet the pillow.

“I will take care of us this time,” Alex whispers earnestly, his breath hot against the shell of Danny’s ear.

He looks over his shoulder to the shape of Alex’s head in the dark room. “I love you,” he whispers, not being selfish enough to keep that fact to himself any longer.

Alex kisses him, sweet and desperate, “I love you,” he agrees, gripping the side of his face and kissing Danny once more.

 

**____________________________________**

 

The next morning, they are inexplicably shy towards each other, navigating around the kitchen like nervous planets caught in an orbit that invariably means they will clumsily collide while frying the bacon and making trips to the refrigerator. Danny bumps into Alex’s chest on the way to the stove and catches a whiff of sandalwood. He looks up and smiles, murmuring, “Sorry,” as Alex casts a fond look at him and his face warms. It’s like their first week together again, when Danny found every habit and idiosyncrasy unbearably attractive and Alex observed him like a work of art.

“Where do the groceries come from?” he asks, once they’ve served the food and poured cups of tea (plus orange juice for Alex).

“Town. I have a truck and try to go a few times every month.”

Danny perks up. “Is the town nice?”

Alex smiles over his glass of juice. “Nothing like London. No dance clubs,” he teases.

He chuckles, using the flat edge of the fork to cut a bacon strip in half. “I haven’t been dancing in ages.”

The man looks up at him in surprise: “You used to go every weekend.”

And before that, every day. There was a time when Danny practically lived at the clubs, but he doesn’t know how to tell Alex that he was in such a dark place that it took every ounce of his concentration to keep breathing. The idea of dancing was impossible. “After you—and Scottie…I didn’t want to,” he cautiously summarizes.

Alex sobers, perhaps detecting the severity of the confession. “I’m sorry.”

Danny sets down his fork and flashes a weary smile. “Why couldn’t they just have scared him? Or moved him, like you?”

“Maybe they didn’t think he was valuable anymore.” Danny shoots a severe look and he adds: “You know what I mean—that he didn’t have valuable _information_ , like I do. They were still sending me work as of last month. I was still of use to them. Spies are ten a penny. People like me are considerably rarer.”

“Geniuses, you mean.”

Alex calmly looks at him, perhaps searching for sarcasm. There is none. Danny knows how brilliant he is. “Yes,” he replies, popping a heap of eggs into his mouth.

Danny pushes the split half of the bacon around on his plate, thinking, before he says: “Your invention was amazing.”

He glances up to find Alex watching him, a spark in his gaze. “And you were very clever, figuring out my code.”

A slow smile spreads across his face, and he can tell from the warming of his cheeks that he’s flushed. Embarrassing, to be carrying on like this, but no matter—Alex’s spine is straight and there’s a pleased look on his face, so perhaps he’s too preoccupied digesting his own compliment to notice Danny blushing like a schoolboy.

 

**____________________________________**

 

“Going for a walk?”

Danny’s struggling to jam his foot into the tight canal of the new boots (still not broken in yet) when he looks up and sees Alex standing by the dormant fireplace, a mug cradled in his hand. He’s wearing jeans and a red sweater, and his hair is disheveled as though he’s just woken from a nap. Apart from manual labor and reading, there’s not much to do in the cabin, so that’s probably what he’s been up to. Danny isn’t accustomed to seeing him in such relaxed demeanor and finds it terribly distracting.

He’s annoyed by his own weakness and resumes tying his boots with renewed vigor. “Yes.”

“May I join you?”

Danny hesitates, thumb pad grazing the plastic tip of a shoelace. He’s been using the walks as an excuse to get away from Alex, just long enough to clear his head before he does anything impulsive and stupid. And walks are an intimate act between them, something they used to do back when they were young and stupidly in love. _You’re still young_ , his brain reminds, _And you still love him_.

Danny doesn’t know what he’s waiting for. Perhaps divine intervention, something to show him it’s safe to forgive Alex and resume their relationship. It feels wrong to be worrying about such things after the death of Scottie and the whole world being on the brink of nuclear annihilation. His and Alex’s love affair is not important, and yet right now it feels like the most essential issue, and he’s unable to cross the threshold in order to join Alex, to pick up where they left off. The wound is still open and festering. Sometimes, when he looks at Alex, he wants to burst into tears and tell him how many ways he thought about killing himself when he thought Alex was dead.

That morning, he had woken early to shower and shave with the new supplies Alex left stocked in the bathroom specially for him. Then he used aftershave and a bit of hair product to tame his wild mane. He’s making an effort to look presentable. Why? Because the impulse to please Alex is still there. It never went away.

He’s waited too long. The silence has grown conspicuous; when he looks up again, there’s anxiety reflected in Alex’s gaze, and Danny hates that he’s the reason it’s there. “Sure,” he says, climbing to his feet.

Alex smiles. “Good. I know a better way than you’ve been walking, but we’ll need to suit up.”

Danny watches him walk to the kitchen to deposit the mug on the counter and then cross the parlor to a closet nearby the front door. “I have a jacket and boots,” he remarks, immediately feeling silly for pointing this out because _of course_ Alex knows that. He bought them. “Thank you, by the way. The fit is perfect.” A memory rushes back to him: Scottie. _What sort of spy would I be if I didn’t know a man’s suit size?_ A wave of nausea washes over him, but he breathes through it, counting to thirty in his head.

“Of course. You’ll need a hat. We’re going to be walking for a bit,” Alex says, sliding into a brown Carhartt jacket and a dark hat with earflaps. He closes the door and carries over a knit beanie and gently pulls it over Danny’s head.

He’d been expecting the man to hand it to him, so he’s paralyzed by surprise, afterwards gazing up at Alex as he straightens the hem across his brow. Just like that, the years of separation are erased and Danny almost reflexively reaches for him, as he used to, arms thrown around his neck to lean up and kiss him. The familiarity of the position must strike Alex too because suddenly their eyes meet and he cups Danny’s cheeks, hands large and warm. More calloused than he remembered. Alex must have been surviving out here on his own for a long time.

“It’s nice to see your face,” he quietly confesses.

Danny doesn’t know what to say. The old Alex was rarely this affectionate, at least not without Danny making the first move. Maybe that was part of an act. Shy, sweet Alex, all a cover for _the spy_.

His first impulse is to deflect. “I look older,” he quips, smiling wryly. He noticed it back in London. There are faint lines around his eyes these days. All the stress had aged him.

“You look the same,” Alex says, every part of him maddeningly attractive: from the sleep-swept hair and sandy beard to his broad shoulders and heady aroma. Danny wants to cling to him and rubs his face all over. “I’m the one with grey hairs in my beard,” Alex jokes, chuckling as he strokes his jaw, a motion Danny finds hypnotic in its own right.

“I can’t see them,” Danny replies, stepping away under the guise of zipping his jacket, “You look handsome,” he blurts, then throws open the back door to rush outside, furious with himself. The freezing air feels good against his flushed skin. _Get yourself sorted. Stop acting like a fool._

There’s still too much to say before they earn the right to behave like lovesick teenagers again.

Alex doesn’t remark on his hasty exit as he tugs closed the door behind him, but does not lock it, Danny notices. No need for paranoid antics. They’re thousands of miles away from the people who wished them harm. They trudge through the snow until the powder transforms into ice at higher elevation, and then Danny has a whole new problem: slipping and sliding all over the place until a smirking Alex offers his arm. Danny gratefully clings to him as they cut a path through huge evergreens, up a steep hill.

The cold bothers him for approximately five minutes of hiking whereupon Danny becomes toasty, and then too warm, yanking open the zipper of his jacket to allow some cold air to filter inside. He’s huffing and puffing when they finally clear the trees and round the top of the hill. He staggers to a halt and audibly gasps. The view from up top is beautiful: the sky painted red and orange from the setting sun, above acres of lush green trees and a view of the town—that must be Attica, the town that the American and Alex have been alluding to. It’s small (all the glimmering lights would fit between Danny’s thumb and forefinger), resting beside blue water. “Is that the ocean?” he asks, immediately feeling dumb because, while he doesn’t have the best grasp of American geography, he doesn’t think they’re close enough to the coast for that to be the case.

“Lake Erie,” Alex corrects, his cheeks rosy from the exertion of the climb and chilly weather. He sucks in a deep breath, invigorated by the sight. “This is my favorite spot.”

Danny quietly takes in the view, silently agreeing that it’s very pretty and a vast improvement over his sullen treks through the dense woods when his jacket and hair would snare in branches and come back tangled with burrs. Alex has always known the best paths to walk, and his mind wanders, remembering their ritual of countryside walks back when they were younger men.

“Am I really not sick?” he asks softly.

Alex’s eyes are sad when he considers him. “Yes,” he replies softly, but firmly.

He sounds so sure, but Danny can’t believe it. It’s all so cruel and elaborate. They performed tests on him. He’s been attending meetings and taking medication. Years ago, he accepted his fate as an HIV-positive individual. It’s simply easier to continue believing that. True, he hasn’t felt any symptoms of the virus, but that’s because the medical professionals caught his positive status early, and put him on all the new, powerful medication cocktails guaranteed to provide him a long, healthy life. Surely, he would have known if he was being given a placebo.

Wouldn’t he?

Perhaps detecting his hesitation, Alex steps in front of him, blocking the view of the town and water. “Danny, look at me,” he says, gloved hands sandwiching Danny’s own covered digits. Despite the barriers, he can feel the man’s warmth. “You must believe me.”

“I do,” he rasps, flashing a weak smile.

He wants to believe, but his brain is suffering from whiplash. Everyone has been lying to him for so long that he doesn’t know what to believe anymore.

 

**____________________________________**

 

Danny wakes the next morning, alone in the large bed, and rolls onto his back to gaze through the skylight. It must have snowed last night because the view is obscured by a bed of white. Or perhaps the winds blew some snow onto the roof. He’s considering the various possibilities when the rumble of voices downstairs steals his attention. Danny jumps out of bed, pulls on a pair of jeans and a sweater and hurries down the steps to find Alex speaking to an elderly man in the kitchen.

He’s dressed casually, jeans and a burgundy shirt, plus boots, his jacket slung over one of the stools. The stranger is around Scottie’s age with receding white hair and a pair of silver spectacles balanced on his nose. “Ah, he awakes,” the man says and Danny stutters to a stop at the foot of the staircase, shooting Alex a desperate look. _What the hell?_

“Danny…” Alex says at once, “This is Dr. Burks. He’s from town.” His expression desperately broadcasts: _Everything is fine. We can trust him_.

But Danny doesn’t trust easily anymore. Right now, he wants to run from the cabin.

“That’s right,” Dr. Burks says, smiling pleasantly, “I met Alex here a few years ago when he broke his hand messing about on the roof,” he chuckles, as if reminiscing over a fond memory, “I don’t usually do house calls this far out, but I made an exception for him because I wanted to meet the crazy son of a bitch who bought the old Johnson place. And put solar panels on the roof!” he laughs.

Alex smiles sheepishly. “Bit bullheaded to give it a go on my own, I suppose.”

“Yeah, I suppose so. You were lucky it wasn’t worse, falling like that.”

Danny blinks. “You fell off the roof?”

Now Alex looks embarrassed. “Just into a snowdrift. I was all right.”

“All right, he says!” Dr. Burks laughs, shaking his head as he lumbers from the kitchen over to Danny. “Pleasure to meet you, by the way,” he says, sticking out a meaty paw. Danny glances at it and accepts the offer, surprised by the firm grip and enthusiastic shake. The doctor is very strong for his age, but Danny supposes everyone who lives in these parts is probably extremely hardy. “Now, Alex tells me you’re fresh back from some travels overseas and would like some blood work done.”

Danny gazes past him to the kitchen and smirks when Alex looks back at him, brows raised.

“Um, yeah. You can do that?”

“Of course I can!” he scoffs, perhaps offended at the accusation of amateurishness. “We have a full lab in town. We’re not hill people, you know.”

“Oh, I didn’t think…” he trails off, realizing too late—only when he sees Dr. Burks’ ruddy cheeks and Alex’s smirk—that the pair are teasing him.

“Come sit on the couch,” the doctor instructs, and Danny complies, rolling up his sweater sleeve. Dr. Burks sits beside him and flips open his medical bag, which rests on the coffee table. He pulls out a pair of latex gloves and a tube, tourniquet, cotton balls, bandaids, and alcoholic wipes. Danny silently concedes that he does seem very well-prepared and professional. He watches the man’s hands, noting how very steady and capable they are. He gazes at Danny’s forearm, no more than a glance, and declares: “Small veins.”

He’s not sure if that’s an insult or compliment, but the man selects a needle based on the diagnosis and ties the tourniquet around his arm. “How long will the results take?” he asks, mostly to distract himself. Danny hates seeing the needle sink into his skin.

Alex appears beside the couch, watching the process with great interest, perhaps not a little concern. Their eyes meet and the man flashes an encouraging smile.

“Oh, depends…” the doctors sighs, and when Danny glances at his arm, he sees the needle already in place, the blood flowing through a line and filling the tube. There is absolutely no pain and Danny gapes, shocked. “Few days to a week, usually.”

He forgets about the painless injection. “Is that for this test or most blood tests?”

The doctor plucks the needle from his arm and covers the growing red dot with a cotton ball. He looks up through bushy brows. “Most tests.”

How to phrase this? Danny isn’t sure what the man knows about him, or Alex. Certainly nothing about their pasts, but he may not even suspect them of being gay. He’s not sure he should announce that he might be HIV-positive. “Do any tests come back in a few minutes?”

He barks with laughter while slapping a bandaid over the cotton ball, the adhesive sticking to Danny’s skin. “No reputable ones, my boy. Even a rapid response test, the kind they do in a doctor’s office, takes at least fifteen minutes.”

Danny feels numb and it’s not from the blood loss. He blinks owlishly and looks up to find Alex still standing there, watching him with something like sympathy in his eyes.

“Welcome to Attica,” the doctor says, afterwards, when he’s cradling the bag and donning his jacket once more. He makes a gesture that looks like a combination of a salute and invisible hat tip. “Good thing you’ve come back to this side of the pond, with all the troubles going on. Terrible business, that. And I’m glad Mr. Scott finally has some company up here. Maybe that’ll stop him from scaling any more roofs,” he teases, tossing Alex a playful smirk.

Alex chuckles as he opens the front door. “Thank you for your help, Dr. Burks.”

“No trouble at all, none at all,” he mumbles, taking a step outside. A new layer of snow covers the front stoop.

“Thank you,” Danny calls from the safe warmth of the house.

The doctor waves one last time before waddling down the steps and beginning the slow march down to the access road.

“Mr. Scott?” Danny muses, once they’re standing together in the kitchen. Alex is pouring them each a cup of tea.

The man gazes over his shoulder, sheepish. “I thought I should change my surname. Probably an unnecessary precaution.” He places Danny’s cup and saucer in front of him on the island counter.

Danny hums, lightly touching his fingertips to the piping hot porcelain. “Do the people in town know you’re gay?”

Alex offers an exasperated look. “Danny, this isn’t London. I haven’t been advertising the fact, if that’s what you’re asking.” He delicately sips the Earl Grey and returns the cup to its saucer. “Maybe they have suspicions, now that you’re here, but they’re good people. They mostly keep to themselves, and I don’t think anyone cares about me, truthfully. Especially since the business in London began.”

All the talk about the nuclear scare has shrunk his stomach into a hard, leaden ball. “Have there been any updates?”

Alex responds by silently shaking his head and taking a long sip from the teacup. He presses his lips together, thoughtfully staring into the amber liquid. A period of silence follows in which they each drink, lost in their respective thoughts, until the man announces: “I’m going into town this afternoon. You’re welcome to join me, if you’d like.”

He perks up at the prospect. No doubt Attica is small, undoubtedly a cultural disappointment in comparison to London, but he’s still curious. “I’d like that.”

 

**____________________________________**

 

The truck rattles and jerks along the icy, rough roads until they’re on the highway. Danny eagerly looks out the window, drinking in the details of his surroundings. He’s never been much of an outdoors person—Alex was his first introduction to concepts like _nature walks_ —so the surroundings are alien and weirdly exciting. He imagines a person who grew up in such an environment probably itches to flee their sleepy town to the nearest large city, but Danny’s experience is the opposite. He has always been a city rat, but London’s loud, brash nature began to grate on his nerves, especially once Scottie died. There’s something serene and meditative about upstate New York that he finds tremendously appealing.

The second exit on the right is Attica, and Alex navigates through a series of deserted intersections in which Danny counts an interaction with exactly two other vehicles. In one instance, Alex doesn’t have the right of way, but the other vehicle, a blue truck, honks and the driver waves out the window for Alex to pass through anyway. Danny gawks disbelievingly and the man chuckles. “Different kind of culture here,” he says.

He parks outside a small convenient store with a modest produce section inside—pure staples, nothing fancy, but Danny sees how Alex has survived on these provisions during his years in the cabin. Alex carries himself differently these days: clipped movements—less fastidious and more practical; he grabs heavy items and heaves them upwards without considering them first. If Danny didn’t know him better, he would describe a man like him as burly. He supposes the transformation was a survival requirement.

And then he thinks of Alex locked inside the trunk and feels ill.

“I’m going to look around,” he announces and turns away to disappear down one of the aisles before Alex can ask him what’s wrong.

He pretends to contemplate the differently labeled cans of beans in aisle three when an elderly woman shuffles by, pushing a cart with a squeaky, broken wheel. “Excuse me—” she politely begins, an unnecessary social gesture given she has plenty of room to pass by narrow Danny, when she stops short and considers him with wide, blue eyes, “Oh! You must be the new one from up at Marie Johnson’s old cabin! I’m Susan Burks…” She extends a pale, wrinkly hand with long, elegant fingers.

“Danny.” He grips her hand gently and furrows his brow for half a second. “Ah, Dr. Burks’ wife?”

“That’s me,” she smiles. Her white hair is cropped short, surprisingly chic given her far proximity from anything that could be considered a style mecca. Her glasses have purple frames and Danny immediately decides he likes her. “How’s our sleepy little town treating you? Not too bored, I hope?”

“Not at all,” he chuckles. “It’s nice. I like the quiet.”

“Well, we have quiet in spades, my dear. I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your last name. Danny…?” she asks, drawing out his name.

“Miller,” he answers reflexively, immediately regretting the decision. _Why did you say that? It’ll get back to Alex_. He had to lie, though. He couldn’t use his real name. Even if Alex is right and the network of intelligence agencies really have stopped looking for them, he still refuses to be so careless as to use his birth name.

“ _Miller_ ,” she coos approvingly. “So you’re Alex’s _friend_.” The title injected with all sorts of lasciviousness. Danny thinks she winks, but that may be his overactive imagination. He’s speechless, jaw dropped open as his slow mind gropes for an appropriate response. Maybe he imagined it. Maybe she hadn’t meant to be suggestive at all. She bursts out laughing at his reaction and grips his arm apologetically. “Oh my word! I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”

“N-no, it’s fine,” he laughs nervously, casting a sly look down the aisle. They’re alone. The only other person in the store is probably Alex. “Alex told me I should be discreet.”

“Probably a good idea, but you don’t need to be discreet around me. I’m sort of whatever the opposite of discreet is,” she chuckles, a hand braced against her hip. She’s bulked up from all the layers, though Danny can tell she has a cute little figure under there. She must have been a hell-raiser back in the day. “But I didn’t think two handsome men living alone in that cabin would be _friends_ , if you catch my drift. Plus, Irvin told me all about the trouble he went through flying you out here, and then scheduling the blood work. He’s quite infatuated with you.”

Danny smiles thinly. He imagines Alex wandering down an aisle by himself and is seized by the urgency to find him. “It was very nice meeting you, Susan. Give my best to Dr. Burks.”

“Oh, call him Irvin, my dear. Absolutely no one calls us the Burks.”

“Okay, it was good seeing you.”

“Be seeing you again soon, I’m sure.”

 

**____________________________________**

 

“You _do_ realize everyone knows you’re gay, yeah?” Danny asks once they’ve piled the groceries in the bed of the truck and are rumbling back south towards the cabin.

Alex offers a glance that is part annoyance, part amusement. “I said I’m trying to be careful. They may know, but I’m not going to be loud about it.”

“Well, Susan Burks knows and Irvin too. And now I’m here, so I’d say the secret is very much out, Alex.”

He’s quiet for a long time. Something in the air-conditioning vent has come loose, perhaps a bit of plastic, and won’t stop rattling. Fixated on it, Danny is seconds from diving forth to dig out whatever it is, when Alex speaks: “How do they know? I live alone. I’ve kept to myself.”

Danny shrugs slowly. “People just know that stuff…”

“But _how_?”

“Intuition, maybe.” The man stares straight ahead, brow furrowed. Explaining emotional intuition to Alex would be like if Alex tried to explain advanced maths to Danny. “It’s like when we met. I saw you and I just…knew. You weren’t being obvious, or anything. I had a hunch.”

He sighs, shoulders deflating minutely. “I don’t understand. Maybe I never will. I thought if I could break it all down into a discernible equation, I could comprehend it, but I’m just as lost as ever.”

In defeat, Alex looks about a decade younger and Danny reaches over to squeeze his knee. “You’re not supposed to know everything, Alex. The moment that happens, life loses its mysteries, and what’s the point in living after that?”

“Is that why they were so afraid of my invention?”

Danny doesn’t know how to begin answering that. He shakes his head, gripping the leather strap above the door when Alex veers off onto the uneven access road. The men who hurt them weren’t afraid of life losing its mysteries. They feared the loss of something much more rudimentary. “Humans can’t communicate without lying. Pure truth would destroy relationships. You meant well, but what you did was endanger every intelligence agency and diplomatic relationship in the world.”

“But you never lied to me. I knew a world like that was possible because of you.”

He feels nauseous, from the travel and the idea that Alex pursued his invention in part because of their relationship. His eyes are hot with tears because Danny knows that Alex has an idea of him being some pure vessel of truth when in fact he became this way out of necessity. He’s done so many fucked up things in his life that Danny has become a serial confessor, laying out all his cards ahead of time so no one can reject him later. _Here I am, in all of my ugliness. Take me or leave me_. People with pride keep secrets, but Danny has no pride left, so he confesses his past before anyone can beat him to the punch.

“I told Susan my surname is Miller. I don’t know why,” he says, adding a second later, “I’m sorry.”

The moment the words leave his mouth, he regrets it. He knows that Alex will recognize the name—that Alex probably did a full background check on Scottie after the first time Danny dropped his name. They ride in silence until Alex parks the truck by the cabin, but does not switch off the vehicle. They sit there, engine humming, bit of plastic rattling. “Were you two…?”

“No,” Danny answers sharply, but the rest spills forth (the downside of not having a filter): “He kissed me once. Right before the end. But that was it.”

Alex’s knuckles are white as he grips the door handle. He takes in the confession, nods once, kills the engine, and opens the door to climb out. Danny alights too and they silently transport the groceries inside, moving around each other as they deposit the food items into the refrigerator and cabinets. Afterwards, Alex collects all the plastic and paper bags and stores them under the sink to be used at a future date. Danny has noticed that he uses everything, even items they would have pitched without a second thought back in London.

About fifteen minutes after their conversation began in the truck, Alex leans against the counter, looks at him, and asks: “Were you in love with him?”

“No, I loved him, but I wasn’t in love with him. I never stopped loving you.”

Alex stares at him, perhaps watching the movement of his face, making silent calculations. “I was going to ask you to marry me, you know.”

Danny gradually eases onto one of the stools, all the strength leaving his legs. No, he had not known that. What is he supposed to say in response? He wants to run upstairs, bury his face in a pillow, and cry. Lately, he’s felt like a rubbernecker to the disaster of their relationship. Alex is alive, so why does all of this feel so bloody sad?

 _Because we’re different people now_.

No one can survive what they’ve survived and come out the same.

“Alex…” he rasps.

“Scottie never cared for me, did he?” he continues. Danny gazes at him, pleading. He doesn’t want to say it aloud, but they both know the answer to that question. “Yeah, thought not,” he smirks, anger and sadness in his gaze.

“You reminded Scottie of himself…when he was young.” Alex looks at him, surprised. “I think, in you, he saw all the wasted opportunities and potential. He was jealous—”

“Because I had you.”

Danny hesitates. It feels a gross oversimplification and vain if he were to acknowledge it, but what’s the point of denying the obvious? “Yes.”

They stare at each other over the island countertop. “Well, he did a better job taking care of you, anyway.” The accusation leaves him breathless, dizzy in outrage because he refuses to let Alex believe that about himself, but before he can get his bearings, the man exits the kitchen with the muttered excuse, “I’m going to do some work on the grounds.”

 

**____________________________________**

 

Danny lazes about reading, unsure of what _work on the grounds_ means or entails, but when the sun sets and it’s dark outside, Alex appears in the bedroom. His jacket and jeans are dirty, as are his hands and face. Whatever he was doing must have entailed quite a bit of manual labor because he’s breathing heavily upon announcing, “I’m going to shower,” and disappears into the loo. Door shut. A clear signal: do not disturb. Danny is resting stomach-down on the mattress, the history of the Second World War spread open before him.

He tries to lose himself in the text again, but is distracted by the sound of running water and his imagination unhelpfully supplying a reason behind each and every noise emanating from the washroom: that’s the sound of Alex stepping beneath the spray; picking up the shampoo; lathering his body with soap…

“Fuck,” Danny grumbles, slamming shut the book and hurrying downstairs with it so he can finish reading on the couch. Alex won’t be long in the shower, anyway. He isn’t the one who’s been carrying on a ridiculously superfluous grooming regiment that includes shaving his chest and keeping his pubic hair carefully manicured. And for what? Danny insists on pretending that he has no idea why he remains deeply concerned with his appearance. It certainly has nothing to do with the handsome spy-turned-woodsman with whom he currently lives.

He hides on the first floor, reading until his eyes keep closing under their own volition and he’s forced to return to the bedroom. Thankfully, it’s been long enough for Alex to clean up and change into track bottoms and a sweatshirt. He’s sitting upright in bed, the comforter pulled up to his waist. When Danny walks into the bedroom, Alex follows him with alert eyes, which means the option of falling right to sleep is out. Lately, they’ve been sharing a bed, sometimes spooning, but nothing else.

Danny gets into bed and sets aside the book, then folds a leg under so he can turn and face Alex.

“Why does it feel so weird?” he sighs.

“Because you thought I was dead,” Alex, ever-pragmatic, responds. But his forehead is slightly wrinkled, which means he’s being a little cheeky.

“I used to have these fantasies about you being alive: what I would do and say to you.”

“What were they?” 

Danny hesitates, suddenly embarrassed by his younger, romantic self. “I would tell you the mistakes and lies didn’t matter to me. I was so afraid you had died thinking I would hate you if I’d known…” His words catch when he realizes he’s never said the words aloud before, “That you’re a spy.”

Alex quietly digests this, nodding. “I used to have vivid dreams about you, and I’m still afraid if I touch you, I’ll wake to discover none of this is real.” A soft, wounded sound leaves him, and Danny gathers Alex’s hand from the mattress to cradle it—to show him that isn’t true. Alex stares at their hands. “I’m in a bad way, Danny. I have terrible nightmares. I’m afraid to find out what will happen, if we…”

Intimacy was an issue for him before the torture. Now, Alex is a powder keg. The realization makes his chest ache. Before, they’d made so much progress together, but now that’s all been undone.

“We can go slow,” Danny whispers, hoping to encourage him, even though he has no idea what he’s doing. He has no background in counseling or trauma. Maybe having sex is a terrible idea. Is it selfish of him to even consider it? “Or we don’t have to at all.”

“I want to,” Alex insists, turning his hand to squeeze Danny’s. “They took everything from me, but I always told myself I wouldn’t let them ruin us.”

“We’re not ruined,” Danny whispers, settling into his old role of their union’s defender. There had been a time when he viciously guarded their memory, and the accusation that they’re broken stokes the same fiery defiance.

He doesn’t ask for permission when straddling Alex, but the man doesn’t tense or resist so he thinks it must be okay. There’s a moment of utter silence when they’re simply gazing at each other and Danny is struck by the fact that he’s here, with Alex, and his eyes are much bluer than he remembered. The man cradles his hips, squeezing the bones as if refamiliarizing himself with the sensation. Danny exhales and reaches past him to grip the headboard and leans down to kiss him. They’ve been here once before, the time on the couch, but Danny is still acquainting himself with the feeling of Alex’s beard grazing his skin and tickling his lips. He decides that the sensation is nice.

Alex exhales, opening his mouth, and Danny hums in approval. He slides forth so that his hips are resting flush to Alex’s and the man’s arms loop his waist. His hands release the headboard and encircle Alex’s shoulders, groping along the fabric of his sweatshirt, fingers greedily running through his hair. A slow, unhurried embrace that reminds him of weekend mornings when they used to neck like this for ages. How strange, to be reliving what used to be one of his most precious memories, one that he previously thought would need to last him until he was a lonely old man.

Alex has many reservations, but his cock apparently never got the notice because he’s already partially rigid inside the trackies. Danny worries the man’s lower lip with his teeth, sucking and pulling gently as his fingers dip inside the waistband and furl around him, stroking slowly. The length rests against his palm, its weight hot and familiar. He pulls away to catch his breath, and because a memory of sucking Alex causes his mouth to preemptively water.

“Can I?” he rasps, tentatively looking at Alex’s flushed face.

He’s still stroking the man, which isn’t really playing fair, but Alex helplessly nods. “Yeah,” he sighs, helping to lift his hips so that Danny can descend his legs and drag the trackies and briefs downwards. He only gets them to about mid-thigh before diving down to swallow the head. A wild sound leaves Alex, some kind of bridled bit of profanity no doubt, but Danny is too focused on the delightful musk and tang of his cock to pay the noise any mind. Fingers furl in his hair, caressing and tugging gently, and Danny moans to show he likes it.

The vibrations must do terrible things to Alex because he gasps and lifts his hips slightly, which is fine by Danny because he’s on the downstroke, swollen cock dragging against his tongue until the head nudges the back of his throat. His hands grip Alex’s hips and pin them against the bed when he begins to bob up and down, sucking hard, in the way he knows will undo the man quickly. Alex could never last long when Danny would do this to him, and that was before, when his restraint was arguably superior.

“Wait,” Alex gasps, gleaning the inevitable as he nobly attempts to fend off his orgasm, but Danny doesn’t want him to wait.

Truthfully, he’s not ready for sex yet, but he wants to do this for Alex, to show him that one day he’ll be ready and he has no plans to give up on them. He cradles the sac between his legs and strokes carefully, knowing that will be the final fracture in Alex’s defenses. On cue, the man gasps, head cracking against the headboard as he comes into Danny’s mouth, the taste of him enormously comforting and familiar. He eases off his soft cock, offering a bashful smile that gives way to murmurs of concern when he realizes Alex is wincing from having smacked the back of his crown on the bed.

“I’m fine,” the man chuckles, gripping Danny’s wrists and kissing his knuckles, “Better than fine,” he sighs, pulling him close to kiss his mouth.

“I missed you,” Danny whispers.

“I missed you too,” Alex replies, his hand dipping south to touch between Danny’s legs.

He catches his wrist. “Can we wait? I need…” Danny isn’t sure how to finish the thought. What does he need?

“Of course,” Alex agrees, pulling up his briefs and trackies and arranging them in their normal sleeping position: his chest to Danny’s back, arms protectively wrapped around his waist.

The adrenaline from seeing Alex come undone is still thick, his heart pounding, cock stirring with interest, and Danny is sure he won’t be able to sleep.

He’s wrong, and falls into a deep slumber within moments.

 

**____________________________________**

 

Dr. Burks rings their bell one week later, a few days later than he had hoped, he explains, because of a snowstorm that blocked large chunks of the highway. Danny isn’t listening to the explanation. Instead, he’s standing in the kitchen, anxiously twisting a towel in his hands as Alex weathers the smalltalk and eventually flashes a polite but telling smile the doctor’s way. 

“Ah,” the elderly man replies, “So. Your blood work. I have some concern…” Alex’s eyes widen as Danny reaches for the counter. He needs to brace against something or he may faint. “Your iron is very low. And the Vitamin D levels. I know it’s the middle of the winter, but these levels are low even by those standards—”

Danny bursts out laughing, cutting off the doctor, who furrows his brow in confusion, looking from him to Alex for a clarification of the outburst.

“ _Bloody hell_ , Irvin,” Alex sighs, covering his mouth, “Low iron? Is that all?”

“ _And_ Vitamin D,” he corrects, annoyed, as though having low vitamin levels is the very worst thing he can conceive. The thought is so delightfully naive that Danny sort of wants to kiss him in gratitude. Irvin Burks cannot imagine a world in which MI6 would pretend to infect Danny with HIV.

“Thank you,” he says instead, and makes his excuses for hurrying from the first floor to the bedroom so the doctor doesn’t see him cry.

 

**____________________________________**

 

Alex joins him minutes later and Danny hears the front door shut as the doctor lets himself out. They sit shoulder-to-shoulder on the bed and Alex wraps an arm around his quaking shoulders, mouth pressed to Danny’s temple. “I told you,” he whispers, tone fond and warm.

“I was afraid you were wrong. I didn’t want to infect you,” Danny sniffles.

“Do you believe it now?”

Danny has to think a moment. How many times has he believed to be staring at the truth when the carpet was pulled from under his feet? “Yes,” he finally concedes, deciding this will be the very last time he trusts. If this turns out to be a lie, he doesn’t want to live in this world anymore.

Alex cradles his chin, turning his face towards him so he can kiss his wet cheeks and soft mouth.

 

**____________________________________**

 

They’re in the grocery store the next week when he sees Susan Burks and her purple glasses plowing down the aisle, pushing a full grocery cart. She explains there’s a big holiday gathering coming up at the Burks household, which is when Danny realizes it must almost be Christmas. Blocking his way to the canned food, she invites him and Alex to the festivities and he chuckles, simply imagining Alex having to interact with the Burks’ family and friends. He hedges, saying that they may have plans, but _thank you so much_ for the invitation.

He means to make his excuses for having to leave, but instead says: “My surname isn’t Miller.”

“Oh?” she asks, brows arching above the purple rims, “Why did you tell me it was?”

“I’m not sure. I got nervous, I think.”

She smiles. “I have that effect on people. So what’s your real name?”

“Holt,” he confesses, “But please don’t share that around. I’m…” How to begin explaining? “I’m trying for a fresh start, with Alex.”

There was more to the explanation, but he can’t share it because she’s squeezing his face, “You both are so cute it breaks my heart. Remember: Friday night, seven o’clock. Let me feed you two. You’re too skinny.”

He meets up with Alex by the checkout line. While a teenager with bleached hair scans their items, Alex glances at the rows of cigarettes behind her shoulders. “Do you need any?” he offers.

“I quit,” Danny smugly reports. Alex’s brows arch, impressed, and he feels warm all over. No need to share the news that he only quit because he was too depressed to maintain any schedule, even physically addictive habits.

 

**____________________________________**

 

“That sounds horrible,” Alex chuckles as they unpack the groceries in the kitchen, in response to Susan Burks’ invitation.

“I know,” Danny laughs, sobering when he remembers the confession of his real name—how he immediately trusted her, for some reason. More of his mysterious emotional intuition. Frances compared it to palm-reading. Maybe she’s not that far off. Danny can look at people and sometimes just _know_ they’re trustworthy. “But she’s very sweet. She adores you, for some reason,” he cheekily adds the last part.

Alex grins. “Because I charmed her.” He’s very chuffed with himself. It isn’t often Alex can claim that because most people find him odd or grating.

Danny opens his mouth to ask how he managed that when the lights go out. It’s dusk, so a bit of natural light still filters through the windows, but it takes his eyes a few seconds to adjust.

“Generator,” Alex explains, voice heavy with a sigh, “It’s been wonky for a while. I’ll go out to fix it.”

He stands quietly in the blackness, unable to speak as he watches Alex’s dark silhouette walk to the back door, open it, and slip outside. “Wait…” he says too late, bile rising in his throat. His hands are cold, legs weak, and he can’t move for several seconds. A terrible feeling overwhelms him. Something bad is going to happen. He’s sure of it. He has to warn Alex, but when he takes a step forwards, his legs give out and he lands heavy on the floor, a jolt of pain traveling up his right arm. Danny moans and curls up, half draped on the wood floor and the square of plush rug that marks the beginning of the parlor.

It’s a trap. MI6 is waiting outside for them. They’ve cut the power as part of the ambush.

All he can do is close his eyes and wait for the inevitable.

The backs of his eyelids flip from black to grey, and when he opens his eyes, the lights are back on. A series of sounds: the backdoor sliding open, footfalls, Alex’s voice: “ _Danny_ ,” so panicked that he immediately feels guilty for being any trouble. Strong hands grab him and he yelps in pain, his right arm throbbing. He silently chastises himself: _What have you done, you fool?_ “What’s wrong? What happened?” Alex leaves him on the floor, afraid to lift him. The man kneels and gingerly touches his face instead.

“Fell…” he weakly explains, already knowing Alex won’t buy that as a full explanation.

Alex strokes his brow and Danny dares to glance upwards, immediately feeling sick when he sees how worried the man looks. “Okay,” he responds, temporarily serving as amicus for the sake of helping Danny, “Can you stand?”

Now that Alex is safely back, he can think more clearly and nods, accepting the help as the man lifts him to his feet and gingerly escorts him to the couch. When seated, he carefully extends his arm. Not broken. He rolls his wrist and winces.

“Sprained,” Alex says, seated beside him, frowning. “I can wrap it, but maybe Dr. Burks should come out to look at it.”

“No.” Danny shakes his head. He’s too embarrassed to have anyone else fuss over him and his stupidity. “I’ll be okay if you wrap it.”

Alex fetches his first aid kit and expertly wraps the damaged appendage until it barely throbs at all. Danny watches him, chest gradually loosening, fondness flushing out all the anxiety. The man’s brow is furrowed in concentration, as if he considers this duty of paramount importance. “Did you trip?” he innocently inquires.

He remembers that Alex considers him the last honest man in the world and sighs. “No, I…” His throat tightens. “I thought someone cut the power.” Alex looks up at him. “I was sure someone was here to take you.”

“Panic attack,” he calmly observes, packing up the kit, “I get them too, usually at night. Remember when you woke me from the nightmare?” Danny nods weakly. “I hate when you walk off from me at the shop. I’m always sure they’ll grab you then, even though I know it isn’t possible.”

“Will it ever go away?”

Alex stands, but pauses to stoop down and kiss his brow. “I don’t know,” he honestly replies before slipping off to put away the kit.

 

**____________________________________**

 

The lights are on, but there’s something wrong with the heat. It’s breathing weakly through the vents, but not warming the cabin at normal levels. “Bloody generator,” Alex grumbles, “I need to upgrade the entire system. That’s my next project. In the meantime…” He presents the blankets to Danny, who is seated in front of the burning fireplace.

Wrapped in a blanket, cradled in Alex’s arms in front of a lovely fire, Danny thinks he prefers things this way. “How do you feel?” the man asks, breath warm on Danny’s neck.

He hums and considers his wrapped wrist. Honestly, he’d forgotten all about it because the other symptoms of the panic attack lingered longer: the nausea and heart palpitations. “It feels better,” he says, casting a warm smile over his shoulder. He imagines Alex and his brilliant mind, slaving over unimportant generator matters. “Do you regret giving up your research?”

The wounded look in his eyes is answer enough, “Of course. The project was my whole life, before I met you.”

“I’m sorry. I feel guilty you had to give it up.”

“It’s not your fault.”

“I know, but I still feel guilty. Does that make sense?”

Alex stares past him, into the flames “Yes. I feel guilty for stopping on the bridge and speaking to you. If I had kept running, none of this would have happened.”

“But then we never would have met.” A tightening around his waist as Alex’s arms squeeze. “I would do it all again, Alex.”

“I could have stopped them from hurting you,” the man continues, lost in his own personal nightmare. Alex must have been endlessly looping the various outcomes inside his brain, wondering how he could have possibly prevented Danny’s suffering. “If I had sent you away, would you have gone?”

“Never,” Danny purrs, reclining his head onto his shoulder. “I would have hounded you to the ends of the earth.”

A thin grin spreads across Alex’s face. “I couldn’t have sent you away anyway.”

“Then it’s settled. The universe wants us to be together,” Danny teases, leaning up to nuzzle a bearded cheek. “I suppose we’ll have to stop feeling miserable and guilty and start enjoying our lives.”

Alex’s smile broadens, the vibrations in his chest a portent of laughter. Danny realizes it’s the first time he’s heard the man laugh in years, and it was a rare event even before, when they were stupid boys falling in love. He closes his eyes for a moment, listening, until the sound is gone and Alex kisses his mouth.

It makes sense to shed their clothes in the warm pocket by the fireplace, and it’s the first time Danny permits himself to really look at Alex and all the changes to his body: the new muscles lining his shoulders and back, the scars on his chest and flank. His back presses into the carpet as Alex lays atop him, legs wrapping around his waist, fingers running through the hair on his chest. He’s missed this. He’s missed every inch of Alex.

He’s self-conscious of how he looks for precisely ten seconds until Alex sighs and calls him beautiful, kissing all the places that Danny wished to hide from him: bony ridge between pectorals, piano keyboard of ribs, uncompromising wings of hipbones. Alex grips his thighs hard and squeezes, coaxing a moan from his mouth. The beast, the one he kept buried for so long, is clawing at the earth, emerging from its deep grave. For years Danny has felt numb, but now the old desires are roaring back to life. He remembers, like a shimmering oasis on the horizon, how wonderful sex with Alex used to feel. “I know you’re not ready for me to…but you can fuck me,” he babbles, loopy from the look and smell of Alex and his recent all-clear diagnosis.

Alex’s flushed face gazes down at him. “I don’t have…” he helplessly begins, but can’t finish before Danny squirms out from under him.

“Oh, I got…” He never finishes, sprinting naked up the stairs and into the bedroom where he locates the bag from the small pharmacy located inside the town shop. He grabs a few condoms and the small bottle of lubricant—not his favorite brand, sadly. They don’t sell his favorite in the states, but this will do. He runs back downstairs, feet frantically pounding the steps, into the parlor containing the fire and an amused Alex.

“You didn’t…” he begins, brows arched as Danny kneels on the rug and excitedly flashes the strip, “You did.”

Danny smiles, refusing to feel any shame. “Didn’t you always say we should be prepared for any eventuality?”

“I meant bringing Wellies,” the man smirks, but he takes the strip from Danny and tears off a square, Danny experiencing a Pavlovian response in which he lays on his back and spread his legs. The amusement vanishes from Alex’s gaze, replaced by an appealing kind of hunger. Alex stares down at the plastic square, then back to Danny. “You wanted me to…?”

Relief washes over him like a warm wave. “No, I thought you’d want to be safe…”

“You’re clean. I’m clean. Do you trust me?”

Danny doesn’t have the luxury of paperwork, but he trusts. He’s always trusted. “Yes.” Alex tosses aside the condom. “Okay, let me,” he whispers, squeezing a few drops of lubricant onto his fingers and reaching between his legs with his good hand to prepare himself. His face and chest warm as Alex’s gaze drops to watch the process.

“Danny..” Alex whispers reverently, the sound sending a thrill up his spine. “That’s enough,” he decides once Danny sinks the second finger inside, and he agrees, hand slipping away.

He licks his lips, watching as Alex smears a bit of lube on his bare cock, heart hammering inside his chest when the gravity of the moment hits him. _Alex_. Danny wants to watch everything at once, but ultimately settles upon Alex’s face when the man pushes inside. It hurts more than he expected and he gasps, “Wait,” back arching as he gasps for breath. He grips Alex’s forearms as an anchor, feeling their solid, strong mass, “Okay…Go on,” he encourages, biting his bottom lip until Alex’s hips press to his rear.

Danny pants for breath, briefly covering his eyes with a non-bandaged hand, amazed by how huge Alex feels—the result of being sexually inactive for a very long time, practically lightyears in Danny’s timeline.

The man is silent, head bowed, body drawn taught, which is how he knows the situation is severe for Alex too. He’s probably afraid if he thrusts that he’ll come straight away. Danny makes a soothing noise and slides his hands from Alex’s forearms to his shoulders and chest, finally cupping his face to coax the man into looking at him. If he had the words, Danny would explain that he could die a happy man just feeling this connection with him again, but such articulations are beyond his reach. “It’s okay,” he manages to whisper, stroking Alex’s cheek.

He hikes back his knees, pulling them closer to his chest to give Alex more room when the man finally braces atop him and dares to rock his hips. The movement pushes a groan from Danny’s mouth, hands sailing from Alex to brace against the carpet above his head, forgetting about the tweaked ligaments. He gasps in pain, desperately shaking his head when Alex stutters to a pause, “No, no. Go on, come on,” he begs, squirming and thrusting until the man resumes his pace.

The wonderful rhythm washes away all his fears and doubts, replacing them with a delicious burn that threatens to incinerate him entirely. “Danny..” Alex gasps, a warning, and he nods dumbly, reaching between his legs to grip and rapidly stroke his leaking cock. Alex is nearing the edge and he wants to be there with him. “I’m—” He’s unable to say the rest, jaw painfully clenched shut, eyes rolled back during the frenzied, final thrusts.

Danny clings to him with his legs and arms, crying to the rafters for the both of them because Alex still feels compelled to swallow his joy. Maybe that will always be the case, with Danny as his sole translator. He feels a warm burst across his stomach, the sensation mirrored inside as Alex orgasms. He collapses to the rug, delighting in the warm, solid weight of Alex on top of him, the man’s chest and stomach heaving against him as he gasps for breath.

“I love you,” Danny sighs.

The warmth of Alex’s mouth on his brow, beard delightfully grazing his cheek. “I love you,” the man murmurs before climbing off him. Danny pouts in objection, reaching for him, too weak to demand to know where he’s going. The answer comes moments later when Alex returns from the kitchen with a warm, moist paper towel to clean him off. Ever the considerate, fastidious lover. He smiles, unable to speak the thought. No matter. Alex notes the gleam in his eyes. “You’ll thank me in the morning,” he says.

It’s too cold to sleep upstairs, and besides, they’ve no strength in their legs to make the journey, so Danny burrows under the covers with Alex spooned behind him. They sleep there, even after the fire burns out and the parlor is no warmer than the bedroom.

 

**____________________________________**

 

Alex nearly electrocutes himself trying to swap out parts of the generator. It turns out, the man at the hardware store gave him the wrong model of torque and the whole system overheats in a matter of seconds, Alex reflexively reaching forth without killing the live wire first, nearly grabbing it before he remembered at the last moment: _Kill the power supply, stupid boy_. Frances' voice. If she could only see him now: filthy, with all his wasted potential. Sometimes he smirks thinking how annoyed she’d be.

He is going to live in a cabin in the middle of the woods with a man he loves for the rest of his life, until his beard is white and every last agent at MI6 has forgotten the name Turner. His discovery will age, forgotten, inside some endless vault. There will never be a monument built in his memory. No one will learn of his existence in the history books. But he will have loved Daniel Edward Holt, and Danny will have loved him in return.

A fair trade, he thinks, as he swaps out the torque for the correct model, restarts the generator and steps back in case it catches fire again. Alex is brilliant with numbers, with theory, but he is no engineer. It’s been thrilling to explore a new field in which he is once more very much a novice.

He packs up the tools and returns to the cabin, knocking his boots against the back steps to free them of residual powder. Inside is quiet. Alex puts the tools away in the closet and sheds his jacket and boots, all the while listening for stirrings of life from upstairs, but only silence answers. Danny is still asleep at 10AM. He smiles to himself, imagining the scene: a nest of blankets, Danny’s mop of hair poking out onto a pillow. Alex walks to the kitchen, opens his laptop, says a silent prayer and hits the power button.

The computer buzzes to life and he exhales. One by one, he flips on the light switches, each time waiting for the power to flicker out again, but it never does. He stands in front of the refrigerator and presses his ear to the cool facade, luxuriating in the sound of a running motor. Electricity is a miracle. He understands that now, having fought to acquire and maintain it. Building his own home has opened a whole new world to him, and these days Alex can’t stand inside a room without wondering what sort of wiring rests just behind the drywall.

He’s going to cook them some late breakfast-slash-early lunch, but before firing up the oven he opens iTunes and selects a playlist labeled _Danny_. Cocteau Twins blares out the speakers and Alex innocently returns to the adjacent kitchen to begin the process of frying some sausages and eggs.

Right on cue, Danny emerges, bare feet padding down the stairs, wearing trackie bottoms and one of Alex’s old t-shirts that swims on his torso. He’s bleary-eyed, confused, gazing about before his vision settles on the computer. “That’s my music,” he murmurs, dumbfounded.

“Indeed,” he agrees, “I remembered some of the bands you like and added them to a playlist.”

Danny sits atop a stool and scrolls through the list. “I can’t believe you remembered all this.”

Alex doesn’t know a non-creepy way to say: _I remember everything about you_ , so he simply shrugs instead. “Got the electricity running again,” he offers, pivoting away from the subject.

“I can see that,” Danny cheekily replies, flashing a very becoming smile.

The expression warms his face, so Alex turns away to focus on making them breakfast. He plates the food and carries it over to the island so he can sit beside Danny at the counter as they eat. The man turns towards him, their knees touching, and Alex clears his throat, popping a chunk of sausage into his mouth. Danny double clicks one of the songs and gritty electric guitar drifts through the speakers. Alex leans towards the screen and squints to see it’s _Captain Beefheart & His Magic Band_.

“I can’t believe you did this,” Danny sighs, leaning over to steal a kiss.

“Want you to feel at home,” Alex confesses, painfully aware that Danny had to leave his whole life behind in London. “I know this place is a bit dull. No good restaurants or clubs. You probably miss dancing.”

His first warning is the glint in Danny’s gaze. “Oh…?” he asks, double clicking somewhere else on the list. Alex leans over to see _M83_ before the instrumental music begins to play. “We can still dance,” he giggles, tugging Alex out of the seat by the wrist with his good hand.

Alex’s first response is to weakly object and tense up, shaking his head as he smiles. He’s rubbish at dancing, but come to think of it, he can’t remember ever trying.

“It’s okay,” Danny soothes, guiding him closer to the parlor where they’ll have more room, “No one’s watching and you can just follow what I do.”

“How?” he helplessly asks, mouth clicking shut when Danny guides Alex’s hands to his narrow hips.

“Hold me there and I’ll hold you…” he says, looping arms around his neck, “Here.”

He nods, swallowing thickly. Okay. He can do this much, at least. “Then what?”

“We move to the music,” Danny whispers, face aglow as he does just that, his body swaying and moving in appealing ways that Alex doesn’t understand, but he follows him in slow circles, aware that Danny is keeping things very basic for his benefit.

“You’re so..” He doesn’t know how to describe his lover. _Beautiful. Ethereal. Graceful. Sexy._ “Good at this…”

“Lots of practice,” Danny smiles, but Alex doesn’t want to think about that: all the times Danny was alone at the clubs without him, how other men must have salivated watching him. All because he was a coward—too afraid to be true to himself and break past career restraints. “You’re doing well, my love.”

The encouragement pulls him from a self-loathing spiral and he flashes a faint smile, knowing Danny is being kind, and still he can’t deny that it feels good to move with him like this. He always thought dancing was one of those silly things foolish people engaged in, along with drinking and having spontaneous sex with strangers. But here, with Danny, he understands the appeal. It’s a way of being intimate without sex, or perhaps a prelude to the deed, he amends, when Danny’s lithe figure presses to him and he looks up, their mouths within striking distance.

He’s still trying to think of how to describe Danny, but instead asks: “Would you still marry me?”

Danny’s gaze drifts upwards from his mouth. “You never asked me the first time,” he teases, smiling slowly.

“Oh.” True. “But would you…have married me?”

“Yes,” Danny replies, eyes shimmering. Alex hopes they’re happy tears. He leans down to kiss him.

“So you’ll still marry me?”

Danny laughs, and the sound is wonderful. Better than music. “Yes, of course.”

 

**____________________________________**

 

Danny insists they attend a holiday party at the Burks’, so Alex goes to the gathering, another first-ever moment. “You’re joking. You’ve _never_ been to a party?” Danny asks and when Alex offers a blank stare in response, he sighs, “Oh, _Alex_ ,” which means he’s put his foot in it again and admitted to something terribly odd. But it’s true. He’s never attended an event like this, and it’s precisely as awkward and strange as he would have predicted.

First, he doesn’t know anyone except Danny and the Burks, but Danny says that’s the point—to meet new people. Alex wants to ask why he needs to know anyone else when Danny is his whole world, but thinks maybe that’s a weird thing to say, so he keeps his mouth closed. Second, there are little children at the party. Alex is not good with children. They tend to ask lots of question, and he tries to field them as best he can, but in the end they always think he’s dull and seem disappointed. Third, he can’t contribute to the party in any way and feels in the way, constantly murmuring apologies and shuffling out of the way until he locates the drinks table and pours himself a plastic cup of wine. Then he finds a seat in the corner and waits for Danny to finish mingling.

“Here he is!” When he looks up from this glass, Mrs. Burks is beelining straight for him. Alex flashes a close-lipped smile and stands to formally greet her. “Oh, my word! He stands up like a real gentleman!” she loudly coos. Alex thinks maybe she’s drunk. “Don’t you look handsome? Where’s your better half?”

He winces but no one seems to pay them any attention. “Uh…” Alex glances around the room and spots Danny talking to a young lady he doesn’t know. “There.”

Susan is much shorter than Alex, so when she casts a look across the room, he doesn’t think she actually sees Danny, but regardless utters an, “Ah!” in epiphany. “He must be head over heels for you, boy, to relocate out here.”

Alex nods, warming to the conversation, realizing he likes to be able to talk about his relationship with Danny like this. No one cares. No one casts a second look his way. “I’m very lucky.”

“Lucky, shmucky!” Susan cries, snatching his glass of wine from his hands. He’s not even sure she realizes she’s done it, but he lets the glass go. He’ll need to drive home soon anyway. “Listen to me, young man. I know a good match when I see it. You two earned it, understand? Love like that takes work. It doesn’t just _happen_.”

Alex think that’s true and a lie. Love _did_ just happen for them, like a lightning strike on the River Thames, but then faceless men stole it, and they had to fight to get it back.

 

**____________________________________**

 

“I’m proud of you. I saw you socializing with Susan,” Danny remarks during their drive back home. Alex glances his way and sees his playful smile, cheeks flushed with a lovely blush. He wagers Danny would taste sweet from the wine if he leaned over to kiss him, but tells himself to focus on driving instead.

“I did my best,” he says, flashing a smile.

“All the little girls have crushes on you,” Danny teases.

And what is he supposed to say to that? Alex’s answer is to blush and cringe as Danny cackles.

“I just realized,” he slurs after a few moments, “I never got you a Christmas present.”

Alex glances at him. The sun has set, the highway lights rhythmically bathing his sweet face in golden halos, flashes reminding him of hallucinations experienced during torture—the visions that helped him maintain his sanity.

“Yes, you did,” he says, feeling pathetic and sentimental, but Danny’s smile is his reward.

Danny trips up the stairs on their way to the bedroom and is a giggling, writhing minx as he wrestles off his, and then Alex’s, clothes. His good mood is contagious, and Alex finds himself laughing and smiling as they fall into bed together. He hasn’t had much to drink, but it’s enough to soothe his anxiety as Danny’s clever mouth travels down his chest, fingers unfastening Alex’s belt and yanking down trousers and briefs in the process.

His heartbeat kicks up when the man grips his knees, pulling them apart, and Alex understands where this is all heading. He tries to sit up, but ends up braced on his elbows, and Danny immediately stops. “We don’t have to. You can fuck me again,” he offers, already breathless, an appealing sheen of sweat stretching across his clavicle and chest.

Alex shakes his head and eases back onto the pillows. “I want to try.” It’s been so long and he’s tired of letting nefarious forces rule his life, doling out flashes of happiness in pathetic teaspoon servings. A universe of pleasure is waiting for him. All he has to do is relax and enjoy it.

Clearly excited by the prospect, Danny leaps into action, fetching the lubricant from the bedside table with trembling hands. Alex folds an arm behind his head, lazily stroking his hard cock as he watches him, aroused but also touched that the idea of fucking Alex has excited Danny to the point of basic motor skill failure. The man flashes an apologetic smile. “It’s been a while. I may not last long. I haven’t…since our last time.”

He understands the magnitude of that sacrifice. For Alex, abstaining from sex for years merely meant reverting to his previous patterns, but for Danny…He has the look of a man who has been suffering from great thirst for a very long time. “That’s okay,” Alex says on an exhale, focusing on the rhythm of his breathing as Danny kneels between his legs and drapes atop Alex’s supine body. Slender fingers trace his flank and Alex inhales sharply, transported back to London and Danny’s shabby flat when they were together for the first time.

“All right? Did I hurt you?” Danny asks in concern, already climbing off him.

Alex has to grab his bicep to keep him pinned in place. “Stop worrying about me,” he whispers, leaning up to kiss him.

“Can’t help it,” Danny murmurs, kissing a cheekbone, the center of his forehead, “I’ll always worry about you.”

That’s the whole point, isn’t it? They can’t stop fretting because they love each other so much. It’s a nice feeling. No one has ever cared about him this much before. He tries to remember how Danny moves when he’s the one on the bottom; how he makes Alex lose all control and rush without thinking. Alex wraps his legs around Danny’s waist and drags him forward, mouth hungry as he kisses him and reaches around to grip the swell of his rear, demanding.

“Fuck, wait,” Danny laughs, breathless, reaching with lubricated, trembling fingers, stroking the crevice until a cool digit pushes inside, “You may be too tight,” he observes, and it’s true. The single digit barely makes the journey, and it doesn’t feel pleasurable—only strange, but Alex knows better than to imagine that’s as good as it will get. He’s seen what the horizon will bring.

He purses his lips and shakes his head, hoping Danny will know that means he doesn’t want to stop. A second finger pushes inside, curling expertly, stroking him the right way. He sighs, eyes pinched shut, chest loosening when his body remembers that Danny is the authority here and knows what he’s doing. _He’s going to make you feel good_.

“I’m going to try now,” Danny announces, hand pulling away, and Alex keeps his eyes closed, knowing what will happen next: Danny will apply the lubricant to his cock and then press the head against—His eyes open when the first push happens. His body’s first impulse is always to fight, but Danny grips the back of his neck and kisses him soundly, swallowing the cry as he thrusts the head inside. “Good?” he asks, voice quaking. Alex can only nod helplessly and leans up to kiss him again.

They rock together, Danny pushing a little further each time until he’s resting flush. Alex opens his eyes then and they look at each other, a smile in their eyes. They’ve won. After everything, after all they’ve taken, the most powerful people in the world can’t take this from them. “Danny…” he begins. He wants to say how much he loves him, but there’s no breath in his lungs.

No need. Danny kisses him, hips languidly rolling, pulling an embarrassing noise from his throat. Or it _would_ have been humiliating, in a different life where Alex still hated himself and his primal desires. Danny won’t allow him to be that self-loathing person anymore. His mouth is hot and wet on the shell of Alex’s ear, telling him to moan—that he loves hearing him like this. Alex arches his back, groaning loudly, heralding the beginning of the end. Danny bows his head and thrusts hard, stars exploding in Alex’s eyes.

 

**____________________________________**

 

The next morning, he wakes first, dresses, and staggers down the steps, head only pounding a little, a reminder of last night’s fun. As Alex boils the water for tea, he realizes that’s a good summary of the party: he had fun going out with Danny. He wouldn’t want to do it every day, but perhaps every once in a while. As he waits for the tea to boil, he sits at the kitchen island and clicks the saved page for _The Guardian_ , the front page headline immediately catching his eye. He stares at it for a long time, waiting for his brain to process the news.

By the time Danny joins him in the kitchen, he’s closed the laptop and placed a piping hot mug of Earl Grey on the counter. “Cheers,” the man croaks as he scales onto a stool, his every movement and cringe an indication that he is certainly worse off than Alex. He feels a pang of sympathy, wondering if he should wait to tell him the news. But no. If the roles were reversed, he’d want to know straight away.

“MI6 located the cell. They were fed bad intel. ISIL never had a bomb.”

Danny stares at him, the tea forgotten. “Who fed them the bad intelligence?”

He smiles slightly, experiencing a surge of pride that Danny’s keen mind seized on that particular aspect of the story. They’re both thinking the same thing: Frances and her network of spies. But they’ll never know for certain. “No one is sure.”

A vindictive part of him wants to shout from the rafters that his invention could have prevented something like this from happening. One scan by his algorithm would have revealed the atomic bomb claims for what they really were: utter bunk. Another part of him wants to feel gratitude towards the woman who raised him, who is undoubtedly the reason he stands here today with Danny. He’s still too angry to forgive, but he can at least acknowledge Frances shut down all of London and single-handedly destroyed MI6 so Alex could live in peace with his love.

“Does that mean they’ll be looking for us again?”

Alex shakes his head. “No. The ripple effect of this will go on for a long time. There will be inquiry hearings, terminations, new hirings. Possibly a full reconfiguration of MI6. The Prime Minister is threatening to hack their budget to pieces for scaremongering the public. They won’t be interested in us, Danny.”

He looks small, pale, and thoroughly unconvinced. “How can you be so sure?”

The tea can wait. Alex walks around the counter so he can stand in front of Danny and cradle his face. At times, he’s considered Danny the naive one, but now he knows there is an innocence that lives in his heart as well—it was necessary, to believe they could even survive this long and one day find happiness. “Call it instinct,” he says, a playful shimmer in his eyes.

“Oh, _really_?” Danny grins, looping a finger in the waistband of his trackies, dragging him forward into the space between his legs.

Alex hums, hands sliding around to stroke his neck. “I’m becoming very emotionally intuitive, I don’t know if you’ve noticed.”

“I have noticed. Maybe I’ll become brilliant at maths.”

“I could use some help with the generator."

Danny’s smile could light the darkest of spaces. “I’ll get right on that, Mr. Turner.”

**Author's Note:**

> follow me: theaoidos.tumblr.com


End file.
